


How We Fell in Love, the Long Version

by tlalnepantla



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, Demisexuality, Depression, Disabled Character, Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, God I hated Gabriel, Good!Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Jealousy, M/M, Michael is an asshole in this, Mutual Pining, Orphan!Aziraphale, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-11-08 06:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20831138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tlalnepantla/pseuds/tlalnepantla
Summary: A terrible accident leads to an unlikely friendship between two boys.Aziraphale has been hurt and broken so many times he no longer believes he’s worth loving. And Anthony, well, it takes him two decades to convince Aziraphale otherwise.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story will deal with themes that might be triggering to some people, including abuse (both physical and mental). I tried to include most of the themes in the tags. However, there will be no graphic descriptions, because, well, this is supposed to be a love story.
> 
> I should probably also warn that both Aziraphale and Crowley have relationships with other people. Again, no detailed descriptions of the said relationships (which are brief, in any way).

_ It was me who fell first. _

—

It was the first day of school after summer. He still remembers how hot it was, how it hadn’t properly rained for six weeks in Tadfield, and how awful it had felt to put on the school uniform. He took the tie off already before the first class, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and stuffed the jacket into his backpack. The teachers didn’t care—they were sweating just as much, looking wistful and irritated to be back at school. 

He sat through the first lesson, but he can no longer recall what it was about. He only remembers how itchy his trousers felt, and how everytime he shifted, his sweaty bum stuck on the fabric. He remembers how the classroom window was open, and how it didn’t help at all, as the air that filled the room was equally warm and smelled of burnt grass. 

When the bell finally rang for the first break, everyone—including him—hurried out, mindless of the teacher’s tired protest. Sitting in a stuffy classroom had been a literal torture, and despite the heat it felt incredibly good to be outside. The school yard was quickly crowded with loud, red-faced children, who had tossed parts of their uniforms carelessly on the ground, and the teachers, who stayed out of the sun, decidedly ignored the chaos. 

He felt a little light-headed and restless, so when a group of boys decided to take off, he went with them. 

Just outside the yard, behind the main building, stood a storage shed, half-hidden by two old maples. The pupils were not allowed to go there, not unless they had a teacher’s permission to get something from the shed—some of the sports equipment was kept in there—but he knew older students hid behind the trees to smoke cigarettes. He wasn’t one for breaking rules, but when one of the boys suggested climbing on top of the shed, he volunteered. 

Maybe he did it to prove himself, or maybe he did it because it was better than being forced to try a cig—he doesn’t know. Whatever it had been, it had made him take of his shoes and socks, and roll up his trousers too, and then he was already rushing to the steel ladder that was leaning against the shed. 

The steps were cool under his bare feet as he dragged himself up. The boys were screaming and laughing below him, and he felt a surge of recklessness shoot through him. He didn’t think he had ever climbed so high, he had never been on a _ roof _ of a building. A few more steps, and he would—

He still doesn’t know what happened, but instead of ending up on the roof, he found himself lying on his back on the ground next to the shed. There was pain in the back of his head, an unpleasant throb that seemed to intensify when he tried to move. The sun, that had been only seconds ago caressing his face, was now scalding, blinding his vision and burning his cheeks. To his utter embarrassment, he felt his eyes filling up with hot tears because it _ hurt_, it hurt so much, and he wanted _ Mum _ to pick him up, to pull him into her arms and whisper his name into his ear, just like she sometimes did when he woke up after a bad dream.

When the first tear escaped his eye, he panicked and tried to lift his left hand to his face—he couldn’t let the boys see him _ cry_, no way—but then suddenly someone grabbed his hand.

“I don’t think you should touch it,” a voice said, a boy. “It’s bleeding.”

_ Bleeding? _ The pain, it was almost unbearable, but he didn’t think he was bleeding. Was he? It was all very confusing. Later, he had realised he must have been unconscious, not for long but long enough to miss someone yelling for a teacher, someone saying that he was _ dead_, someone asking—time after time after time—whether _ anyone _ saw what happened.

But then, there was only the voice of that boy. The voice that said he was bleeding, even though he was sure he wasn’t. There were fingers around his palm, gently holding his hand down. He’s sure he wouldn’t have been able to even lift it, because his shoulder was aching too.

“Hurts,” he gasped, and his voice sounded strange, as though the word was not coming out of his mouth but directly from his body, right through flesh and gristle, shot desperately towards the boy next to him.

He forced his eyes open, not realising he had closed them, and tried to focus on the face in front of him. At first it was blurry—like one of those paintings he had seen in an art museum once and thought that anyone could paint a mess like that, even with their eyes closed—but as he blinked, the boy became clear. 

The boy had a round face, cheeks like two halves of a red apple, a small, pointy nose, and light blue eyes. There was a white cloud of hair on top of the boy’s head, and a part of it was plastered against his forehead like a thick, wet noodle.

Later, when he was already in the hospital, all stitched and drugged up, he finally let himself to think about the accident. He was sure he could literally_ die _ of shame when he remembered what he had thought the boy was. How could he have been so _ childish_? It didn’t matter how hard he had fell or how out of it he had been—there was no excuse for acting like a 5-year-old! He squirmed under the thin hospital blanket and practically groaned aloud, the memory of the boy torturing him more than the subdued pain in his head and arm. He had been so _ stupid, stupid, stupid. _

But there, many hours before, when he had been lying on the ground, wounded, broken, hurting, he had looked blearily at the boy and asked, “Are you an angel?”

The boy hadn’t even laughed, even though he would have deserved it being childish and stupid that he was. The boy had only squeezed his hand and then turned to look at someone, or something, behind him.

“The teacher is coming,” the boy had said, “You’ll be all right. Everything will be all right.”

The teacher came, the boy let go off his hand, then the ambulance came, then was inside the ambulance, then he was in the hospital, and then Mum came.

However, everything was not all right as was to be expected. He had a severe concussion. The blow of the fall had _ nearly _ fractured a bone under his left eye. His left arm was sprained, luckily not broken. No one at school could tell Mum how he had fallen, no matter how much she yelled into the phone in the hospital corridor. She was so angry at the school for letting him fall she even forgot to be angry at him, which was a miracle itself. 

The doctor wanted to check his eye, and he was made to stare at a bright light for so long the eye felt like it was bleeding again.

”Mrs. Crowley?” the doctor said after she finished examining his eyes. ”Could I have a word with you? In private.” 

He couldn’t remember if Mum looked worried or not because his mind was occupied with the boy who looked like an angel. Later, he would find out that whatever the doctor said to Mum was also one of the things that proved that, no, everything was certainly not okay. All of that was still in the future, not very far but far enough that it didn’t seem nearly as important as the worrying fact that there was now someone at school who thought he was an utter fool. 

He spent the night in the hospital but the next day Mum came to pick him up, and—to his disappointment—he was back at school already on Thursday. At least he got to wear an eye patch, which made him look absolutely _ wicked, _and apparently everyone else thought so too. A girl in his first class stared at him with her mouth open, a strange, heated look in her eyes—but then everyone noticed and started laughing, and she blushed so hard the freckles on her nose and cheeks turned brown.

All morning he sweated in his uniform—not because of the heat that still lingered but because he was dreading the moment he would see the boy again. He had begged Mum to let her stay at home for the rest of the week, saying that his head hurt (a lie) and that he couldn’t see properly with his left eye when he took off the patch (not a lie), but she was relentless, insisting that he couldn’t miss any more classes. It was the first week of school, after all. 

Then, in the afternoon, it finally happened. The second last break of the day was nearly over, and he had just finished eating his afternoon snack—Mum always packed something small for him so he could get through the day without starving. On his way to the bin to toss the paper wrapping, he saw the boy. He was sitting on a bench next to the playground, hunched over a book so thick it was certainly not a children’s book. 

He stopped abruptly, a cold feeling traveling through him. It was odd to see the boy just… sitting there, as if nothing had happened, nothing at all. No one had never _ not _ used an opportunity to get at someone—especially not when it was something so embarrassingly _ delicious._ And yet, no one had even mentioned the accident besides asking him if he was all right and if he got to choose the color of the eye patch. (He did get to choose it—it was black.) 

In the hospital he had hoped that maybe he had been so out of it that he had made up the boy. Now he hoped that he just made up the part where he asked if the boy was an angel. Sadly, he still looked like one, even through one eye.

Suddenly the boy looked up, as though sensing that someone was gawking at him. 

“Hello!” the boy called out, and he froze. The boy closed the book and carefully put it on the bench next to him. Then, to his horror, the boy jogged to him, his white curls bouncing around his face.

“Hello, you”, the boy greeted again and flashed him a smile, showing a row of perfectly white and even teeth. “How are you feeling? What a stylish eye patch you have!”

He could only stare him, rendered speechless. The boy was a bit shorter than him, but he suspected he might have been a bit older—or at least he sounded like it. In fact, the boy sounded a bit like Grandma who was at least _ fifty _ years old.

“You still have an eye under there?” the boy continued, a small frown appearing between his eyebrows. 

“What? Of course,” he snapped, instantly regretting. Here he was, barking at a boy who—miraculously—had not decided to tell everyone how pathetic he was. Wasn’t he supposed to be grateful? The boy had held his hand for God’s sake! He should have been crawling in front of him, kissing his feet for not spreading humiliating rumours.

“How great!” the boy said, clapping his hands together. “You have very nice eyes, it would be horrible to lose one of them.”

“Er, thanks?” he replied, feeling his face getting hot. Who_ was _ this boy _ ? _ No one had ever complimented his eyes—or any other part of his body for that matter, except Mum, but that was totally different. Was he making fun of him? If that was the case, he would have to put an end to it _ right now. _

“Look,” he said, lowering his voice as he leaned down to speak to the boy. “You wouldn’t go telling anyone about what happened on Monday? I wouldn’t like it very much if you did.”

He tried to sound as stern as he could, without coming out as outright mean. Judging by the boy’s faltering smile he might not have been very successful.

“I’m… sorry? I was under the impression that, uh, that— if not everyone, then maybe the majority would… But I could, of course, be mistaken. That everyone would already know about the accident, I meant to say,” the boy stammered, looking at him warily. He _ really _ had an odd way of talking. He used way too many words. 

“Well, I was not talking about that, obviously,” he sighed. “I meant _ the other thing_.”

“The other…? I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t— I don’t think I’m following?”

“The angel thing!” he yelled, frustrated. He knew he was definitely turning red now, he could feel it like a hot layer on top of his already heated face. Why was the boy so dense? Was he just pretending so that he could make him admit out loud how stupid he was? The boy seemed innocent but what did he know. Looks were often deceiving.

The boy looked confused for a second but then the smile was back on his face.

“Oh! That! I liked that part,” he said, chuckling. “It was quite adorable.”

“What? No, no, no, no, _ no_.”

This was a _ nightmare_. He closed his eyes—well, an eye—and sent a prayer to someone, _ anyone_, to let him out of this situation. 

“There, there,” the boy tutted, and he snapped his eye open when he felt a hand on his arm. The boy patted on it lightly a couple of times before letting go. “I won’t say anything, I promise. I just, I liked being mistaken for an angel. It could be my nickname. I never had one, a nickname, that is. What’s your name, by the way?”

He stared at the place where the boy had touched him before slowly turning to meet his eyes. They really were the lightest blue, exactly the same colour as the sky.

“Crowley. Anthony,” he said, without meaning to, unable to look away.

“I’m Aziraphale. Pleasure to meet you, Anthony.”

“Aziwhat? What kind of a name is _ that_?” He knew he was being rude but Aziralph— Aziwhatever just smiled. 

“Well, it’s _ my _ name. But I guess you can just keep calling me Angel.”

And that was how Aziraphale became Angel.

—

He started seeing Aziraphale every day at school.

They would meet up already in the morning before the first class, chatting until they had to part ways to go to their own classrooms. After the bell rang, they met again by the bench—the same one Aziraphale had sat on the day they had properly met—to talk about everything and nothing. Sometimes Aziraphale had a book with him that he wanted to read, and then they sat together, only without saying anything.

He learned Aziraphale was actually two years older than him. He had recently moved and that was why he hadn’t seen him at school before summer. He didn’t live with his parents because—as he told him—both of his parents were in Heaven, and so his home was a Catholic orphanage on the other side of the town, quite far from his house. Before moving to Tadfield, Aziraphale had lived in another orphanage in Newport where he was also born. He never asked why he had moved, assuming that someone had made the decision for him. Children didn’t usually get a say in things like that, in any way.

In his turn, he told Aziraphale that he lived with Mum, and that he hadn’t seen his father for five years. He later felt bad about telling it right after Aziraphale had told that he didn’t have _ any _ parents, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind. He said he didn’t even remember how it felt to have a mother or a father, so it was all right.

He had never met an orphan before, but to him Aziraphale seemed quite… normal. Well, not exactly normal, he was definitely not like the other boys. For example, he actually seemed to enjoy school. He had good grades in every subject, especially in English, and he liked reading and writing, even on his spare time. 

It made him wonder what _ Aziraphale_—of all people—had been doing at the shed. He certainly did not seem like someone who would go wandering outside the school yard, let alone to _ smoke _ behind a teacher’s back. When he said this aloud, Aziraphale agreed, saying that it had been just a ’happy coincidence’ that he happened to be there. Apparently someone had seen a grass snake near the maples and Aziraphale’s curiosity had won over. His search, however, had been interrupted by the yells, and he had run to the shed to see what was going on. 

He didn’t ask for more details because—frankly—he didn’t want to know. Aziraphale seemed to understand, changing the subject to something else. It was as if they made a mutual agreement not to talk about the accident again. 

As the days went by, he realised he barely talked with anyone else besides Aziraphale at school. He didn’t mind it, not at all, but he wasn’t entirely sure why Aziraphale wanted to spend all his breaks with _ him_. Aziraphale was certainly a nicer person than he was—in fact, he was the _ nicest _ person he knew—so he started doubting if their friendship was based on something else, maybe even pity. Did Aziraphale think he had to hang out with him, that he didn’t have other friends? Because he did, at least a few in his class. 

But then, he remembered Aziraphale didn’t really know anyone in Tadfield, and he had likely been the first person he had talked with at school, and somehow that was even worse. Feeling guilty, as though he had deliberately been hoarding Aziraphale for himself, he asked if Aziraphale had other friends at the orphanage.

He never really got a reply—or at least he has already forgotten what it was—but just like they had decided not to talk about the accident, the same wordless agreement now applied to the orphanage. Aziraphale had anyway told him enough: how he was forced to pray, and read the Bible, and do chores every evening and at weekends too. Even with Aziraphale’s overly polite way of talking the orphanage sounded horrible, and living there seemed like an additional punishment for being an orphan. Obviously, it was not a place where one could make friends.

September turned into October, and he finally got rid of the eye patch. His eye still didn’t feel like it was completely healed, but the doctor had said it would take some time to get used to seeing with both eyes again so he wasn’t worried. Besides, when he had gone to school the next morning, Aziraphale had looked into his left eye and said, “Yes, it looks perfectly fine”, and he decided to believe him. 

They had known only for a month and their friendship was even shorter than that but it _ felt _ longer. They rarely saw each other outside school—Aziraphale had to be back at the orphanage before four o’clock every day—but, strangely, they had become close, tangled together like two vines that had nothing else in common but the ground they were both planted in. 

He thought it was mostly because of Aziraphale. Not only was he nice but he was also smart and funny and kind, and, therefore, his complete opposite. Aziraphale didn’t even seem to mind that he was rude, or said mean things, as long as he apologised. He always did.

“Angel, _ please _forgive me,” he would say theatrically, clasping his hands together as he kneeled in front of Aziraphale. This never happened in public, though. He was, in no way, ashamed to be seen with Aziraphale, but he never called him Angel when anyone else could hear. It was kind of an inside joke, just between them, and he liked to keep it like that.

“You’ll end up in Hell with a mouth like that, Anthony,” Aziraphale would say, trying to look serious, but he had that twinkle in his blue eyes that betrayed him every time.

Afterwards they would both laugh, but as Aziraphale offered his hand and pulled him up, he leaned towards him and whispered his sincere apology into his ear. Aziraphale’s curls tickled his cheek, and he always lingered longer than it was appropriate, stealing a sniff of Aziraphale’s familiar smell.

Around Halloween, his eye started bothering him again. First, it was small, only a feeling that he had something extra in his eye. Aziraphale looked into the eye, so closely that he forgot how to breathe, but he never saw anything there, no matter how many times he checked. 

Then, there was the problem with lights. Suddenly all the lights in the classroom seemed too bright and a minute later he couldn’t see properly, as though he was sitting in the dark. This kept going on for weeks until Aziraphale finally convinced him to tell Mum.

“Perhaps it’s nothing and then you’ll know,” Aziraphale had said. He hadn’t admitted to Aziraphale that he was scared, he was _ very _scared, but somehow Aziraphale still knew. Aziraphale was very good at reading people, other people besides him, too. 

Again, it turned out it wasn’t nothing. This time he was there with Mum when the doctor delivered the bad news.

“A head trauma can cause something like this. Or it might have been in you ever since you were born. We can never know for sure.” The doctor was very friendly, especially when Mum started crying so hard she needed a napkin—as though it had been her eye that was slowly rotting inside her head.

For a second he hoped it had been because Mum was already quite old and had seen more things than he had. Right after he felt awful for hoping something like that.

The doctor assured that they wouldn’t cut the eye off, which, at least, was comforting, but she couldn’t promise that it wouldn’t, at some point in his life, go blind. He was given another eye patch that he could wear whenever the lights became too overwhelming, and a bottle of eyedrops, but other than that, there was nothing to be done. 

At first, he didn’t want to tell Aziraphale. He didn’t want to tell anyone. He regretted ever following the boys to the shed, felt ashamed of his clumsiness and how he had managed to cripple himself. But more than anything, he was afraid that he would be pitied. He tried to convince himself that Aziraphale would never feel sorry for him, but everytime he thought about Aziraphale’s face, his heart clenched painfully and he felt like crying. 

In the end, he didn’t even have to tell him. When they met at the school gates next morning, Aziraphale looked at him _ once _ and knew. 

”Oh, my dear Anthony,” he said as he pulled him into a hug. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, and for a moment he thought he would never be able to let go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why didn't anyone tell me editing can be such a pain in the ass? I have over 30k words written, but finishing up the shortest chapter takes a week... Oh, well.
> 
> Thank you for all the reads, comments and kudos!

Life went on. The eye bothered him less than he had feared. It didn’t get better, but it didn’t get worse either. Somehow that was a good thing, according to Aziraphale. 

Still, he refused to wear the eye patch at school and tried his best to convince Mum not to let the teachers know he had problems with his vision. Whenever the eye acted up, it was brief, and he didn’t want to draw any extra attention to himself or get treated differently—Mum _ had _to understand that.

After relentless persuasion, she finally gave in, but not before making him promise he would tell her _ right away _ if his condition took a turn for the worse. In case that happened, she would have to reconsider her decision. He made the promise, happily, because he knew he would eventually heal completely. There was no other option, really. 

Busy with homework, exams, Aziraphale, and life in general, he was mostly able to forget about the eye. As November rolled in, the days got noticeably shorter and gloomier, which helped too. He had noticed how bright lights, even daylight, irritated his eye and gave him headaches, so when it rained for twenty-one consecutive days, he was actually pleased—unlike everyone else.

November changed into December, and the rains became colder and colder, until they stopped altogether. As though to make up for the unbearably hot summer, God—or whoever controlled the weather—decided to whip Tadfield with a freezing storm that covered streets with a thin layer of black ice, causing a spike in emergency room visits.

On a particularly frosty morning, Mum forced him to wear a knitted hat she had made, and because Mum wasn’t that good of a knitter, he took it off and stuffed it into his backpack before walking through the school gates. 

When he saw Aziraphale waiting for him, he immediately felt bad. Aziraphale was visibly shivering; he didn’t have a hat _ or _gloves, and his winter coat looked worn-out and entirely too big for him, hanging on his frame like an over-sized tent. Without thinking twice, he took out Mum’s hat and handed it to Aziraphale. Sure, the hat was ugly, but at least it was warm, and he could always ask Mum to make him a new one. 

”What’s this?” Aziraphale asked, eyeing the hat. He rubbed his hands together in an attempt to warm them up. 

”A hat. Take it, you look like you’re cold,” he said, wiggling the headwear. 

Normally Aziraphale would have argued with him, saying that he couldn’t accept the hat for whatever silly reason, but now he hesitated only for a second before holding out a trembling hand. 

”Thank you,” Aziraphale said quietly as he pulled the hat over the pink tops of his ears. 

It was around that time that he started hating the orphanage, and letting Aziraphale go outside without proper winter clothing was only one of the reasons. 

Even though Aziraphale wouldn’t talk about, it was quite clear he didn’t like being at home. Every afternoon, when the last lesson ended, children were generally in good moods and excited to go home. Not Aziraphale, though—he became quiet and sullen, as though whatever waited for him at the orphanage was worse than school. It was a strange, off-putting thought. 

He started also suspecting Aziraphale wasn’t given enough food, because he always eyed his school lunch after finishing his own. He had then asked Mum to pack more snacks that he could share with Aziraphale, and she did. 

But what really pissed him off, was the fact that Aziraphale wasn’t allowed to go anywhere. Once, in October, he had asked Mum in advance if Aziraphale could visit their house, maybe to even stay the night. She had said yes, and he had been so _ excited_—only to get disappointed the next day when Aziraphale had told him it simply wasn’t possible for him to come over, not even for a few hours. 

Unable to hide his displeasure from Aziraphale, he had snapped at him, instantly regretting when Aziraphale had cowered and said he was sorry. He had forced himself to calm down and tell Aziraphale he wasn’t angry at _ him,_ but Aziraphale hadn’t seemed convinced, which only made him more upset at the whole situation. 

Two weeks before Christmas, when everyone started talking about their Christmas plans and gift wish lists, he was determined to try again. There wasn’t going to be an abundance of presents at the orphanage—that was obvious—but to know that Aziraphale would have to spend Christmas alone, without a family or friends… Well, the thought was simply unbearable, and that was why he had to do something about it.

He brought the subject up during an afternoon break. Even though it was colder than a witch’s tit outside, all pupils were made to spend breaks outside, and so they were sitting on the same bench they always sat on. Aziraphale was reading another absurdly thick book, and he was nestled against his side, shamelessly using the cold weather as an excuse to get closer than strictly necessary. How Aziraphale could still concentrate on reading was a total mystery, but he knew it was partly owing to the wool scarf and mittens Mum had forwarded to him, after learning what had happened with the knit hat. Aziraphale had accepted both, albeit hesitantly, asking him to give his plentiful thanks to her. 

After bracing himself for half a minute, he decided to go straight to the point and ask, ”Do you think they would let you come over at Christmas?” 

At first, it seemed as though Aziraphale hadn’t heard him, and he was about to repeat the question, but then Aziraphale let out a long sigh. ”I’ll do my best, Anthony,” he said calmly, not taking his eyes off the book.

”You’d think they _ wanted _ you out for a few days. Fewer mouths to feed, right?” 

He felt Aziraphale tense. 

”Perhaps,” Aziraphale said. He knew he was walking on thin ice. Whenever Aziraphale started giving him curt answers, he knew he had to proceed carefully, maybe even drop the whole subject. Not this time, though, because he _ really _ wanted to spend Christmas with Aziraphale. 

”Will you be adopted soon?” he then asked. 

He had wanted to ask that question for weeks. The more he hated the orphanage, the more he hoped Aziraphale would come to school one morning and tell him he would have a real family, a mum and a dad, who would give him new clothes and books and enough to eat every day. Then, Aziraphale would be able to come to his house, like other children, and he could visit Aziraphale’s house in return, for as long as he wanted. And the new family would love him, because he wanted someone to love Aziraphale as much as Mum loved him. 

”I don’t think so,” Aziraphale answered, and it was so un-Aziraphale-like that he turned on the bench to look at him properly. 

”Why not? If I was an adult, I would adopt you, instead of some _ baby_. You can already read, so they wouldn’t have to teach you.” It all made sense to him, but Aziraphale didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at him. ”Maybe _ Mum _ could adopt you, and then you could always stay with us and—”

”Will you just be quiet for once!” Aziraphale suddenly snapped. He slammed the book shut and stood up. He had never seen Aziraphale angry, but now he certainly was, his blue eyes dark and flaming like he had two pieces of thunder trapped inside his irises. ”I don’t want to hear it, so _ please_, just shut up.”

He was utterly speechless for a minute, gaping at Aziraphale who was standing in front of him, his shoulders shaking as he breathed heavily, in and out, in and out, in and out, until the anger seeped out of him, as though he was a towel that someone had squeezed dry. Then Aziraphale only looked miserable, and that look didn’t fit him any better than the angry one. 

”I’m sorry, Anthony,” Aziraphale said, quietly, avoiding his eyes. ”That was truly, _ very _awful of me. I’m so sorry.” 

Later, he realised he should have made it clear to Aziraphale that it was okay to get upset, that he didn’t always need to be happy or spend so much time fearing he could potentially hurt someone just by telling how _ he _felt. Years later, he sometimes went back to that day and wondered how everything could have been different, if he had simply explained Aziraphale that feelings weren’t a nasty monster that needed to be suffocated. 

But because he was just a child, a stupid child, he completely botched everything up, and instead of digging out the real reason why Aziraphale was so angry and miserable, he grabbed his hand and said, ”No, Angel, _ I’m _sorry. We don’t have to talk about it again, if you don’t want to.” 

And Aziraphale looked at him, gave him a smile—not the big, happy smile but a more timid, melancholic smile that he would learn to dread as they got older, because it was not a smile at all but a mask—and held his hand until the bell rang for the next class. 

—

In the end, Aziraphale was able to come over on Christmas Eve—only for the evening but it was certainly better than nothing. Aziraphale's excellent grades and good behaviour were to be thanked: they had granted him the privilege to skip the orphanage’s ‘Christmas festivities’, which apparently included praying, doing chores, rehearsing a play about the birth of Christ, cleaning, and a little more praying.

He wasn’t exactly nervous that Aziraphale would see their house—it was just a boringly normal English house with two floors, three bedrooms and a small backyard—but he still cleaned up his room, and even helped Mum to prepare the dinner. Aziraphale liked Mum’s snacks but they were _ nothing _ compared to what she cooked at Christmas. Every year, he spent the Christmas Day at Grandma’s house with his aunts, uncles and cousins, and that was also when they had the Christmas dinner—made by Mum and her older sister—but for Aziraphale’s sake he asked Mum if she could, the very least, make her famous roast, potatoes and Christmas pudding. 

Mum had looked at him as if he had said something silly, and scoffed, ”Of course, love. What did you expect I was going to serve your best friend, soup?” 

He actually thought Aziraphale would have been equally happy to eat soup, but he didn’t tell Mum that. 

Aziraphale refused to be picked up by Mum, so he walked halfway to the orphanage to meet up with him, and then they walked back to his house. It was quite a long walk, but Aziraphale said it would be good for their appetites to exercise a bit. 

When they arrived at the house, they were both shivering, and Aziraphale’s nose had turned pink from the cold. He wanted to rub it between his fingers until it would be warm again, but he gave up the idea after realising his hands were probably just as freezing.

Mum opened the front door and ushered them inside, and they were welcomed by a delicious smell of rich food, which made his mouth water instantly. Aziraphale took off his hat, revealing a comical mop of curls that were sticking to every direction, but luckily he was too busy looking at everything in the hallway to be self-conscious.

“Now, Aziraphale, love, I want to hear all about you,” Mum said as he gently guided Aziraphale toward the dining room, “but the dinner will get cold if we don’t settle down first.”

Aziraphale sat down at the table and he took a seat across from him so that he could see his expressions when he tasted everything. Mum had really outdone herself: the roast smelled heavenly, the potatoes were golden, and the gravy looked thick and creamy. Aziraphale stared at the dishes in awe, as though he had never seen so much food in his life.

“Help yourself,” Mum encouraged, and shyly, Aziraphale took a little bit of everything on his plate.

They ate in a comfortable silence for a while, and when the first waves of hunger were successfully tamed, Mum put down her utensils and turned to Aziraphale. ”You have had a very good influence on Anthony,” she said. ”I don’t think I’ve ever seen him quite so excited to go to school every morning.”

”_Mum_,” he warned, casting a sharp look at her. He was scared to find out just how many embarrassing stories Mum would tell Aziraphale—even though secretly he was pleased that he finally had someone who would listen to those stories—but Mum behaved as though she hadn’t heard anything and instead watched Aziraphale with a small smile on her face. 

”Well, Mrs. Crowley,” Aziraphale started in his typical, overly proper way, as he primly dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin, ”I can assure that Anthony has had a mutually good influence on me.” 

He turned to look at Aziraphale, surprised. It had never occurred to him that Aziraphale would get as much out of their friendship as he did. Most of the time he felt as if he was merely a nuisance, complaining about everything, interrupting Aziraphale’s reading, or just being lazy with schoolwork, which annoyed Aziraphale the most. 

But then again, he _ was _ still Aziraphale’s only friend. Surely having a lousy friend was better than having no friends at all, or at least that’s what he thought—not to say that he had any experience on that matter since Aziraphale was pretty much perfect. 

”That is lovely to hear, love,” Mum said, beaming. ”Please, call me Mum. I haven’t been Mrs. Crowley for a long time.”

Aziraphale looked taken back, blushing faintly. 

”Oh— Well, that’s— That’s all right, then. Mum,” he said, a strange look on his face, as though the word was another thing he hadn’t tasted before.

Later, when Aziraphale had already left and he was lying in his bed under the covers, he realised that it had probably been the first time in a long time Aziraphale had called someone Mum. The thought made him a little bittersweet—he wished Aziraphale wouldn’t have to live without a mother, but at the same time it made him so very happy to be able to share Mum with him. Perhaps that was how it felt to have a sibling. 

After the dinner he took Aziraphale to his room. He had quite an impressive collection of toys, but he knew Aziraphale was already too old to be interested in them, so instead he showed him some of his drawings, and a miniature Bentley he had found on the ground behind the school. It didn’t count as a toy because he had re-painted its chipped hood, and had to now refrain from playing with it to avoid scraping the paint job. Aziraphale praised his work on the Bentley and told that his drawings were very good, making his heart swell with joy and affection. 

It made him confident when he handed Aziraphale his hastily wrapped Christmas gift. It was a framed drawing of them two standing side by side, but he had given Aziraphale enormous snow white wings that covered most of the background. He himself was crouched underneath one wing, which—he later realized—looked a bit like they were embracing, even though he had only had the composition in mind when he had been sketching it. 

He told Aziraphale to open the gift right away, but Aziraphale just stared at it like it was a bomb, looking horrified. 

”Oh, dear. I— I forgot that— I didn’t get you anything,” he said with a small voice. 

”Don’t worry about it,” he hurried to say. It wasn’t a lie—he hadn’t really expected Aziraphale to give him anything. He knew that his friend didn’t have much money, and what little Aziraphale had he would rather see spent on something that was needed instead of a gift. ”It’s nothing big anyway. Open it.”

Aziraphale was still frozen, making no move to unwrap the gift. 

”Are you sure? Had I known that there would be an of exchange of gifts, I would have—”

”Just open it, Angel!” 

Aziraphale flinched, but before he had time to feel bad about it, he started opening the package with slightly trembling hands. Instead of ripping off the paper, he carefully peeled of the tape, folded the wrapping neatly and put it on the bed, before finally turning the frame around. 

”Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. A whole minute passed in silence as he gawked at the drawing, a cavalcade of emotions passing through his face. 

The longer he waited for Aziraphale to say something, the more nervous he got, until he finally couldn’t hold it in any longer, and said, ”It’s just a stupid picture, really. I don’t mind if you throw it away. Or you can put something else inside the frame.”

He felt like a fool. What would Aziraphale do with a crappy drawing anyway? Did he even have anywhere to hang it at the orphanage? Maybe Aziraphale was shocked speechless by the sentimentality of the gift and was just figuring out ways to tell how they obviously had a completely different perception of their friendship and—

”I love it,” Aziraphale said. “It’s wonderful. I love it.” 

And when Aziraphale looked at him and gave him a smile, that was so wide it created wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, he knew he was telling the truth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they're teenagers, yikes.

A childhood, that always seemed to last forever, was over sooner than he expected. He wasn’t prepared for it, but then again, who was? Had anyone ever woken up one morning and said, ”I knew from the start I was going to end up _ exactly _ like this!”? Very unlikely.

But still, every year it came to him as a surprise. He was already tall, but how much taller could he be? He no longer sounded like a boy, but how much lower could his voice go? And more importantly—and what Mum especially wanted to know—how much more could he eat, every day, several times a day, and still feel constantly hungry? 

Aziraphale had said it would take approximately two more years before the hunger stopped. He had no choice but to believe him—after all, Aziraphale was always right. And besides, Aziraphale had already lived through those years, he had gotten taller—although it seemed like he had already stopped growing—his voice had changed, and his body too, and in a few weeks he would go to a new school. 

Rather than staying in their secondary school, Aziraphale had applied to a more reputable sixth form college, located half an hour bus ride away from Tadfield. It had been a surprise to no one when he had been admitted in—every school should have been happy to have a smart and hardworking pupil like Aziraphale. Naturally, it meant they would no longer see each other at school, but the thought didn’t make him nearly as sad as he had feared, because Aziraphale didn’t live at the orphanage anymore. 

In the end, no one had adopted him. He had left the orphanage a year before to move to a foster home, where would have to stay until he turned eighteen. But _ then_, he could live _ anywhere _ he wanted. 

Aziraphale’s foster parents were a middle-aged couple, Mary and Philip, and they were quite okay. When Aziraphale moved in, they had already another foster child, Michael, and Aziraphale had to share a room with him. Michael was sixteen—like Aziraphale—but he went to a special school. He didn’t exactly know why, but he figured it had something to do with his behaviour. Unlike Aziraphale, who was pretty much free to come and go as he pleased, Michael had stricter rules, and even though he seemed normal, there was something reserved in him, something that he couldn't really put his finger on. Not that he had to—they rarely spent time at Aziraphale’s home, so the whole foster family seemed a bit distant to him, not only Michael.

Still, Aziraphale didn’t have to pray, or read the Bible, and he had clothes that were clean and actually fit him, which made him extremely happy. Perhaps it wasn’t the kind of family that Aziraphale would have deserved, but it was certainly better than the orphanage. 

Besides, Mary and Philip were the reason why Aziraphale was currently in his room, hunched over his desk, writing. Aziraphale could visit him whenever he wanted—provided that he didn’t have any chores to do or exams to study for—which meant that he spent more time at his house than his own, especially now that it was summer.

He was lying on his bed on his stomach, a sketch book laid out in front of him, lazily outlining Aziraphale’s head. Whenever he didn’t have any new ideas to draw, he usually ended up drawing Aziraphale—who was his favourite subject anyways. He had decided he wanted to get better at portraits, and he was currently studying how to do Aziraphale’s hair so that it didn’t look like he had a lump of worms on top of his head. 

A breeze of cool late-summer air blew from the open window and rattled the blinds in a calming rhythm, accompanied by the rustle of pen against paper as he drew and Aziraphale wrote. That day the sky was completely cloudless—a rare occurrence in Tadfield—but neither of them had felt like going outside. Aziraphale had wanted to finish a short story he had been working on lately, whereas he preferred to stay inside, keep the blinds closed and lights dimmed.

For years his left eye had remained the same, and he had only suffered from occasional flashes and momentary loss of sight. The headaches still seemed to worsen in daylight, so Aziraphale had suggested he could get a pair of sunglasses, but he hesitated. He still strongly believed it was just a matter of time before the eye would heal, and walking around in sunglasses would certainly raise unnecessary questions.

He did have to figure out something before school started, but he didn’t want to worry about it just yet. There was still time.

The chair creaked as Aziraphale leaned back and stretched his arms behind his neck, sighing. 

”Can I read it when it’s finished?” he asked, using the opportunity to start a discussion without interrupting Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale turned toward him and shrugged. ”Yes. If you really want to.”

”Of course I want.”

”Okay, then.”

The chair creaked again as Aziraphale turned back and, after a short pause, continued writing. 

He had read every single thing Aziraphale had ever written. They were usually short stories, but some of them were longer, almost as long as books they were made to read at school. Some of the stories were so philosophical and insightful and complex, that he struggled to quite grasp them, but he knew it was just because Aziraphale was such an excellent writer—and it wasn’t just his biased opinion, because Aziraphale had also won an award at a national writing competition. 

That story was one of his favourites. It was about an angel and a demon who needed to work together to save the humanity, and despite their initial preconceptions toward each other, they became friends and prevented the armageddon from happening. He knew the story had loads of double meanings, and metaforas, and whatnot, that the competition judges had praised, but he liked to think the story was actually about Aziraphale himself. If there was anyone in the world who could stop a war, it would be Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale had never said he wanted to be a writer—a _ real _ writer, the kind who writes books for a living—but he was sure Aziraphale would become one when he grew up. Aziraphale _ loved _ writing and reading, probably more than anything else. Sure, his best friend was good at many other things, but writing—it just made sense. 

Unable to concentrate on the portrait—in which the hair now looked like a cleaning mop—he found himself watching Aziraphale. He followed the curve of his arm that rested on the desk, took notice of how his right leg bounced restlessly, like it always did when he was concentrating on something, counted the creases on the shirt that was stretched across his back. 

He was just about to move to admire the sun kissed patch of skin on Aziraphale’s neck, when there was a knock on the door. 

”Boys?” a muffled voice asked, before Mum opened the door and stuck her head in the room. ”The dinner is ready.”

”Bloody finally!” he cried out and slammed the sketch book shut. ”A minute longer and I would have died of hunger.”

”Language, Anthony. Come set the table, then, if you’re in such a hurry.” 

Mum turned to go, when Aziraphale spoke up, stopping her in her tracks. 

”Mum?”

”Yes, love?”

”Can I— Would it be all right if I stayed over tonight?”

He looked at Aziraphale, surprised. They hadn’t talked about anything about a sleepover. 

”Well,” Mum said, looking pensive, ”I can’t see why not. But you do have to call Mary first.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders relaxed, and there was an odd, relieved look on his face—as though he had just avoided something very unpleasant—before it was pushed away by a wide smile. ”I will. Thank you, Mum.”

Later, he often wondered how many signs he had seen and chose to ignore. Why hadn’t he asked why Aziraphale didn’t want to go home on that day? Why hadn’t he asked after the second time? Or the third, the sixth, the eighteenth? Was it because he didn't know? Or was it his selfishness that prevented him from seeing? Because he does remember the happiness, the utter joy he felt every time he fell asleep and woke up next to Aziraphale, thinking, _hoping_, that it was him who made him stay.

But that evening, he didn’t think about any of that. He only thought about Aziraphale, who was lying on a mattress next to his bed, and how badly he wanted to ask if he could lie next to him, just for a little while. 

He startled when Aziraphale suddenly whispered his name, bringing him back from a verge of a dream. 

”Hmh?” he mumbled, his voice already thick with sleep. 

”Would you like me to read the story to you?” Aziraphale asked. 

”Mm, what. Like now?” 

”Yes. But if you’re too tired now, I can—”

”I’m not!” He turned on to his side and groped for the bedside lamp. The sudden light blinded him momentarily when he switched the light on. ”Please, Angel, read it to me.”

”All right. Make room.”

Aziraphale pushed off the covers and stood up. Before he had any time to react, Aziraphale snatched the notebook from the desk and lifted a corner of his blanket, before settling down next to him. After a moment’s shock, he scooted back so that there was at least a small gap between their bodies. 

To this day, he can’t remember what the story was about. He only recalls how warm Aziraphale was beside him, how soothing his voice sounded, and how utterly content he felt in that moment—with Aziraphale. 

—

Summer ended and school started. 

In many ways, things were different. First of all, he decided to finally take Aziraphale’s advice and started wearing sunglasses to school. Surprisingly, no one cared, because, well, no one seemed to remember he even existed. It was no wonder; it had been _ years _ since the last time he had had a real conversation with someone else besides Aziraphale. Even seeing everyone in his class was as though he was meeting them for the first time. Had that boy with glasses always been in the same class? What about that red haired girl, what was her name again?

He came to a sudden realisation that he would actually have to start talking to people, unless he wanted to spend the remaining school years alone. Somehow, the thought alone was unappealing. He didn’t _ want _to make new friends—Aziraphale was the only one he needed. 

Besides, there was something funny going on at school. The girls had gone through some changes during the summer: they had started to smell sweet, and they spent every break giggling together in groups and casting shy looks at boys who walked by. And their skirts were definitely shorter, even though the girls themselves hadn’t gotten any taller, only wider (at some places).

They were looking at him, too. He could feel their gazes as he sat on the bench between lessons, trying to finish up homework he hadn't bothered to do at home. The sunglasses only seemed to add to their interest, which was certainly not something he had wanted. 

He didn’t know what to make of it. The other boys seemed very intrigued by the recent developments, loudly commenting on who had the best looking tits, and bragging to each other about whose arse they had managed to grope. Yet strangely, when there was an actual girl in sight, the boys seemed to lose their ability to speak at all. 

He didn’t participate in any of that, slightly put off by everyone’s behaviour. 

Unfortunately, he was sometimes involuntarily pulled into the conversation, like that one time after P.E., when Mark—a short boy who had gotten a pretty sore looking acne sometime during the past few years—had forced him to tell everyone who he thought the most fuckable girl in school was. The other boys had already told their picks. 

He had frozen a towel in his hand, his wet hair dripping water on the changing room floor, and had looked up to find Mark staring at him expectantly, a self-satisfied grin on his face. 

Later, he thought that maybe Mark had sensed something about him that even he didn’t know yet. Like a predator smelling his prey, Mark had tried to caught him unawares, perhaps hoping he ended up revealing something, _ anything,_ that would make him a great target for all sorts of bullying. 

But even though he was still innocent, still young, he hadn’t been completely clueless. He had seen the mean look in Mark’s eyes, and had instantly known that there were many correct answers and only one that was wrong. So instead of telling everyone that no, none of the girls were ’fuckable’ or beautiful or interesting—because none of them had white curly hair and a face that looked like it belonged to a Greek sculpture, none of them could make him feel better when his eye started acting up, and none of them were sweet and smart and funny—he had said, ”Helen, obviously. Have you seen her tits?”

After school, when Aziraphale had come over, and they had both slouched on his bed, waiting for Mum to fetch them for dinner, he had wanted to ask if his friend had had similar experiences. Had he also gone to school and noticed that suddenly everyone was mad? That all they could talk about was girls and their anatomy, and wanking, and sex? But then he had remembered that Aziraphale was older, and probably nothing about it was new to him, and he would much rather talk about his lessons, or other, more mature things. 

So they had talked about Aziraphale’s new school, his teachers and classmates. Aziraphale was excited about all of that, but what made him especially happy, were the advanced English lessons he attended. His heart had swelled with pride when Aziraphale had told about the feedback his teacher had given him, saying that he had the gift of writing, and that he should seriously consider applying to Literature programmes after finishing sixth form. 

”I knew it, Angel,” he had said, a bit smug, ”I knew you were going to be a writer. You’re going to be the best author in England, and the richest too.”

Aziraphale had snorted. ”Being _ rich _ is hardly a good motivation for a writer—or anyone else for that matter. And you can’t really say that someone is the _ best _ author. That would be very subjective.” 

He had told Aziraphale that he was being too modest, but at the same time he had only been able to think how wise his friend was, how sensible everything he said was, and how much he missed that, when nothing else seemed to make sense. 

—

As the school year progressed, things calmed down. Relationships were formed between his classmates, then broken, then formed again, and broken again—each time with a little less drama. He was no longer included in the locker room conversations, because he couldn’t participate in the weekly competition on who had managed to snog with most girls. 

He still hadn’t snogged with anyone, ever. Not even that one time at a party at Robert’s in November, when he drunk beer for the first time and suddenly understood why it could increase one’s want to snog with someone. 

Aziraphale wasn’t at that party, because only the students at his school had been invited, and besides, he was sure Aziraphale wouldn’t have wanted to go, as he liked peace and quiet and got anxious in big crowds. But _ had _ Aziraphale been there—and this was something that confused and scared him—he would have wanted to lean down and press his nose against the skin in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, inhale his scent, and maybe, _ maybe, _turn his head so that his lips would have touched his jaw, softly as a feather. 

It was something that could have easily been blamed on the ale, but even after the buzz went away, he found himself thinking about Aziraphale in way that wasn’t entirely appropriate. 

The next day after the party was tough. It was a Saturday, and Aziraphale came over around noon—Mum had given him his own key a year back—and when he heard his voice, greeting Mum in the hallway, and then the familiar sound of his steps as he climbed up the stairs to his room, his heart started racing and his palms sweating, and that moment he knew he was screwed. 

When Aziraphale appeared at the door, he realised he must have looked strange, sitting on the bed with his back stiff as a board, rubbing his sweaty palms nervously against the bed cover. 

”Hello, you,” Aziraphale greeted him, like he always did, and smiled—that stupidly beautiful smile that he loved—and his heart skipped a beat. 

”Hello. Aziraphale,” he replied, and then gave himself a mental slap in the face. Way to go trying to appear like his whole world hadn’t just turned a day ago! He was positive Aziraphale didn’t even know he was capable of pronouncing his utterly ridiculous (wonderful) name, and now he had gone and said it in the most conspicuous way, with no one else around. 

Aziraphale’s smile faltered, and he frowned, looking worried. He dropped his backpack on the floor beside the bed and took a step closer. 

”Are you all right? You look a little flustered. Fever?”

Aziraphale was already extending his hand, most likely to check his temperature, and he couldn’t stand the thought of getting touched _ now_, not when it was literally the only thing he wanted, so he catapulted off the bed and turned so that he didn't need to look at Aziraphale. 

”I’m fine,” he said as he picked up a book from his desk and pretended to be reading the back cover. ”Just tired, I think.” 

He deliberately said nothing about the party, even though a hangover would have been a great excuse for his strange behaviour. Talking about the party would have made everything—every feeling, every thought, every fear—seem more real, and he wasn’t ready for it to be real, certainly not now, possibly never. 

”Oh,” he heard Aziraphale say. ”Do you want to take a nap? You could have called and said you’re too tired to hang out.”

He turned abruptly to Aziraphale, feeling regretful. How did he always manage to say and do the wrong thing?

”Don’t be a fool, Angel,” he sighed. ”I’m never too tired to hang out.” _ I love hanging out with you_. _ I love every second I get to spend with you_, he wanted to add but didn’t, obviously. 

Aziraphale still looked unsure, and he felt his heart drop. _ Why, _oh why, was he never able to convince Aziraphale that he wasn’t a burden, that they had an equal right to need one other and that their friendship didn’t only happen when it was convenient for him? Why wasn’t he better at getting that through Aziraphale’s head?

Before Aziraphale did something stupid, like apologised to him, he put the random book back on the desk, picked up his English Grammar book, instead, and said, ”I need help with a nasty exercise. Please help me, Angel?”

He aimed his best puppy look at Aziraphale, sticking out his lower lip and hugging the book against his chest. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and snorted.

”All right, but this time you’ll do your own homework. I’ll be only assisting.” 

And as he sat at his desk, Aziraphale standing behind him and occasionally reaching over his shoulder to point at an error he made, he knew that he would just have to get used to a racing heart and sweaty palms, because no way in hell would he risk _ this_, this thing they had, that was perfect and irreplaceable, like some rare flower that would never bloom again if he dared to pick it up.

He was screwed, indeed he was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of feelings in this one... Again, many thanks to everyone who reads this story. I'd love to hear more thoughts and speculations.

Just how screwed was he? He found that out soon enough. 

He didn’t sleep. Well, he did, but not without having dreams of Aziraphale, the kind of dreams he couldn’t tell anyone about, _ especially _not Aziraphale. 

He would wake up in the middle of the night, limbs tangled in sheets, shivering but heated at the same time. Sometimes he was hard, sometimes his underwear was already wet with his release, and what made it worse was the complete lack of remorse. He was only incredibly turned on, lingering in bed and thinking how amazing Aziraphale had to be to make him feel that way, even without being there physically. 

In the morning he _ was _ashamed, disgusted even. How could he use Aziraphale like that, to bring himself off? Rationally, he knew that he couldn’t decide what he dreamt of, but still… He could choose what he did after those dreams, and he chose to fantasise about his best friend. It was unacceptable. 

Still, somehow he was always able to explain to himself, that it was only a physical reaction, that it was completely natural for a boy in his age to get aroused by the strangest things. He was sure the same had happened to Aziraphale, but _ that _ he tried not to think about. It was a little too exciting. 

However, other things were harder to explain. Things that happened when he was wide awake.

He started spending a lot of time watching Aziraphale. And yes, he had always liked watching him, because he simply was nice to look at, but not quite like this. He kept getting lost in thoughts of how beautiful Aziraphale was, how he was the best looking person he knew, how much he wanted to hold him and kiss him—even though he wouldn’t know how to—and how he wanted to know everything about him, his every hope and fear, so that he could give him everything that was good and take away everything that wasn’t. 

Those thoughts came to him at the most inconvenient times: when he was having supper with Aziraphale and Mum, when Aziraphale was asking him something important, like his opinion on a story he was currently working on, when Aziraphale was bending down to tie his shoelaces, or scratching his nose, or doing something else that was completely boring and ordinary. And he would be momentarily deaf to everything around him, sinking in the thoughts like a pebble that had been thrown into a pond, until Aziraphale called his name and he would resurface, gasping for air. 

_ It will definitely pass_, he told himself after a month. 

_ It will probably pass, _he thought after three months.

_ It might not pass, _ he admitted after half a year. _ I need to do something about it. _

But what? That was the question. 

Stupid and hopeful that he was, he started to think that maybe, _ maybe_, there was a slight chance of Aziraphale returning his feelings. Exhibit one: Aziraphale spent his every free moment with him. Exhibit two: he could make Aziraphale smile and laugh, more often than anyone else. Exhibit three: they were best friends, as Aziraphale still hadn't replaced him with someone nicer. 

Wasn’t that enough of evidence that Aziraphale might feel the same? Logically thinking, it was. But like he had personally witnessed, love and affection and lust weren’t logical. He knew one could fall in love with someone bad, someone damaged, and mutually one could meet the most suitable person and not feel anything.

A voice in his head kept telling him that he was both bad and suitable, but none of that would matter if he never told Aziraphale. Aziraphale would never find out, and wasn’t that worse than rejection? That he would live the rest of his life not knowing which one he was?

The decision came easily after that. He would tell Aziraphale, but he needed to do it carefully. Throwing his feelings at Aziraphale without any consideration could potentially destroy their friendship. He needed to make sure there was a way out for Aziraphale in case he didn’t like him back. Then—in the sad, yet entirely possible, scenario in which Aziraphale didn’t fancy him—they could both keep on living like nothing had happened. 

So, he waited for a perfect moment, until it finally came one morning in the beginning of August, ten months after Robert’s fateful party. Aziraphale had stayed over again, and was currently sleeping on the mattress beside his bed, as usual. He had woken up some time ago—without an erection, thank God—and was sitting cross-legged on his bed, watching Aziraphale sleep. He looked so peaceful and pure, and when his heart clenched painfully, almost stealing his breath away, he knew he had to know _ today_, he had to, or he would die. 

As if sensing his despair, Aziraphale stirred and opened his eyes. He rubbed at them sleepily before turning to look at him. 

”Morning,” he said, and smiled. 

His heart clenched again. 

”Morning, Angel,” he replied. ”Did you sleep well?”

”I certainly did, like always.” Aziraphale sat up and stretched his arms, revealing a patch of his stomach as his T-shirt rode up. 

There was suddenly a lump in his throat that made swallowing difficult. 

_ Now or never, now or never, now or never. _

”Angel?” he forced out, his voice thick. 

Aziraphale turned toward him again, yawning. ”Yes?”

”I was just thinking that… Do you have someone, like at school, or anywhere, that you— That you fancy?” 

It was the best version he had come up with, and now that it was out, he felt slightly dizzy.

Aziraphale looked surprised for a second before a pensive expression fell upon his face. 

”You mean, like a girl?” he asked slowly, a frown appearing between his eyebrows. 

”Yeah, or a boy. Or anyone.”

_ Say my name, say it, just do it_, he chanted in his head, over and over again, even though his hopes were already getting cracks, slowly breaking apart. 

”No, not at the moment, I think.”

_ Fuck. _

There was no way he was able to conceal his disappointment, his heart breaking, shattering into a million pieces, or the _ pain_, the horrible pain that suddenly filled his every cell. But maybe he somehow was, because Aziraphale just kept looking at him curiously as though he hadn’t just—with one sentence—changed everything. 

”Why do you ask?” Aziraphale asked. Then his eyes widened. ”Oh! Do you have someone you like?”

_ No, no, no, no. _This was not going according to plan, not at all. 

”Ngk, what? No!” he gasped, panicking. 

Later in his life, he often asked himself: What harm would it have done to tell Aziraphale anyway? Even if he didn’t return his feelings, he could have told Aziraphale that he was loved. He _ should _ have told him that, and much more. That he was the most important person in his life, that he cherished every moment they spent together, that he could count on him and tell him everything, and that he would always be his friend, _ always. _

Instead, he had been a fool, thinking that Aziraphale didn’t deserve that information because he hadn’t gotten anything from him in return. 

How selfish had he been?

”I just wanted to know,” he continued, wanting to fix the damage he had caused with his delusional hope for something that wasn’t there, ”because, well, I still haven’t kissed anyone, and I was thinking that— That maybe I’m missing something, or that maybe there’s something wrong with me or—” Fuck, he needed to stop blabbering already. 

He quickly glanced at Aziraphale and noticed he had a soft, understanding look in his blue eyes. He felt his face heating. 

”Anthony, my dear,” Aziraphale said gently. ”There’s nothing wrong with you. You haven’t just met the right person. And if you ask me, kissing is slightly overrated, anyway.”

He opened his mouth to insist that he _ had _found the right person, when Aziraphale’s last words sunk in, leaving him speechless. Surely Aziraphale hadn’t just implied that—

”You have kissed someone?” he asked, hating how his voice had started to tremble. 

_ This isn’t happening, it’s not, please say that you haven’t, because it can’t be true, it can’t— _

”Well, yes, and I assure you—”

”Who? Who was it?”

He knew he was starting to sound upset. He could feel how his jaw tensed, how his fingers gripped on the blanket, and how there was a strange ringing in his ears, as though someone had just fired a gun next to his head. 

Because rejection he could take. He could live knowing that Aziraphale didn’t love him back, because even then they would both carry on, being alone, until maybe someday his friend would give him another chance, maybe when they were a little older and more ready. But knowing that there was someone _ else _ who had touched Aziraphale, _ his _Angel… He couldn’t stand it, he just couldn’t. 

Aziraphale suddenly looked uncomfortable. ”I don’t think it matters here, I just wanted to make a—”

”Who. Was. It.”

He knew was being rude, but he didn’t care. How had Aziraphale _ never _ mentioned he had kissed someone? How the hell was it even possible for him to go around, _ kissing _people, when they spent practically all of their free time together? Unless, unless it was someone from his school. Was it his classmate, maybe someone older? Someone who was smart, someone who had two working eyes, someone who Aziraphale liked, even more than him?

Aziraphale sighed. ”If you must know: it was Michael. But as I was trying to say, it was nothing, only happened a couple of times and—”

”Michael? As in, your brother Michael?”

A cold feeling was spreading through him, as though someone had just poured icy water on him. Something was _ very _ wrong in the picture. 

”You know we aren’t actually related,” Aziraphale said, dismissively. He was no longer looking at him, nervously smoothing the blanket on top of his legs with his palms. 

”And now you… Are you together or something?" he asked, even though he didn’t even want to know. The cold feeling inside him was replaced with something else, something poisonous, and he felt as though he was about to be sick. 

”God no,” Aziraphale said, and shook his head hard. ”We were only… fooling around.” 

”Fooling around— Wait, do Mary and Philip know?”

He knew the answer even before Aziraphale said anything. A dark shadow passed through his friend’s face, and he got a fleeting glimpse of his anger before it was replaced with a blank expression. 

”No. And please, don’t say anything to them. Or Mum. Please,” Aziraphale begged. ”It was nothing.”

At that point he should have known it wasn’t nothing. If something had ever been _ not _nothing, it was this, this dark secret that Aziraphale had never told him, his best friend, and that had—as he later realised—slipped out of him accidentally, involuntarily.

He didn’t ask why Aziraphale didn’t want anyone to know. Later, he regretted not telling at least Mum, because she would have known what to do and a lot of pain could have been avoided. 

He didn’t tell Mum or demand more answers from Aziraphale, because his heart was bleeding, like some small, pathetic animal that someone had run over and left on the road to die, and that was all he could think of. Not only had Aziraphale not loved him back, he had chosen someone else to ’fool around’ with, completely forgetting that he had been there, all along, waiting for him. 

”I won’t tell anyone, Angel. I promise.”

—

He wanted to be angry at Aziraphale, at least for a little while, but he couldn’t. 

School started again—Aziraphale’s last year—and he couldn’t waste the remaining months being bitter, not when Aziraphale would soon start applying to universities, and then, definitely, move away. 

And in any way, his love wasn't something he could just turn off—it was imprinted on him like a heart-shaped tattoo with Aziraphale’s name in the middle. It never went away, never faded, but little by little it healed, until it was no longer an infected wound that bled interstitial fluid every time he picked at it. 

As months passed, faster than it was fair, the heartache was replaced with a feeling of complete helplessness. After Christmas—which Aziraphale had spent at their house, finally without going back home for even a day—time seemed to go by even more rapidly, and he could do nothing to slow it down. 

He was excited for Aziraphale, he really was, but at the same time the thought of his best friend leaving made him unreasonably depressed. He kept snapping at Aziraphale and Mum more often than usual, and one time he had even told Aziraphale he was busy when, in truth, he had just wanted to sulk alone in his room. 

Afterwards, he felt guilty for pushing Aziraphale away like that, forcing him to go stay at his own home, with his foster parents that still felt just as foreign to him as they did years ago, and with Michael who was cut out from their lives, never to be mentioned. He rarely visited Aziraphale’s house, but now he stopped altogether, afraid that if he saw Michael, his old wound might suddenly start leaking puss. 

Then, in March—a couple of days before Aziraphale's eighteenth birthday—something good, something almost miraculous happened.

He and Mum had already planned a party—well, if you could call it a party when only three people were attending—and he had gotten Aziraphale a gift that cost him half a year’s allowance. Aziraphale had seemed nervous for the past weeks, but he had thought it was caused by the excitement of becoming a legal adult. University applications probably didn’t help either. 

On the day of Aziraphale’s birthday, which was a Tuesday, he called his house after school—relieved when Michael wasn’t the one answering—and asked him to come over, as soon as possible. Aziraphale had tried to ask what was going on, but he had only told him to hurry up, before hanging up the phone. 

Aziraphale arrived twenty minutes later, looking pale and worried. After he saw the banners and decorations, and the cake that had Aziraphale’s name written on it with white frosting, he blushed furiously, before his face broke into a smile, and he dropped his backpack unceremoniously on the hallway floor and hurried to hug both him and Mum. 

”I hope you didn’t have anything else planned at home,” Mum said after Aziraphale had blown the candles and cut the cake, and they had settled down in the living room to eat it with tea.

”Oh, no,” Aziraphale answered after taking a sip of his tea. ”Mary promised we would celebrate on Saturday. Perhaps go to the town to eat or something. And Philip gave me some money to—and I quote him—buy myself a pint.”

”Did he give enough for two pints?” he asked innocently as he was cutting his piece of cake with a fork.

”Keep dreaming, Anthony,” Mum said sternly, but she was smiling sweetly behind her cup. ”Two more years and you can drink as much as you want.”

”Boo,” he said, smirking. 

Aziraphale suddenly cleared his throat, and put his cup on the coffee table. ”I actually wanted to ask you something. I know it’s probably too much, and in no way are you obligated to say yes, but I just— I just thought I might ask.”

He had that nervous expression again on his face, the one that he had been wearing for weeks. What could possibly be making him so anxious? 

”What is it, love?” Mum asked, her smile faltering a little. 

”Well,” Aziraphale started, but had to clear his throat again before continuing, ”since I’m now legally an adult, I no longer have to live in the foster home, and I was wondering if— If it would be possible for me to, uh, to move here? Just until the end of the summer, of course. And I know it might be too much to ask, but I already kind of… well, live here, so I thought…”

His voice faded away and he turned to stare at his hands that were restlessly fidgeting in his lap. 

They were all silent for a couple of seconds, before both he and Mum spoke at the same time. 

”Of course you can move here, love!”

”_Please_, Mum, let him stay!”

Aziraphale raised his head abruptly, his jaw dropping. He looked sincerely surprised, and it _ hurt_—it hurt that even after years he would still behave as though they had met only yesterday, as though they weren’t the closest thing to a real family that he had ever had. 

”Are you— are you sure?” Aziraphale asked with a small voice, and he then got up from the sofa and practically tackled his friend, wrapping his arms around him and burying his nose in his soft curls. 

After convincing Aziraphale, that yes, he absolutely could stay with them until he started university—and there was no chance he wouldn’t get in with his nearly perfect grades—Mum had only wanted to know whether the matter had been discussed with Mary and Philip. Aziraphale promised to tell them as soon as possible, assuring Mum they wouldn’t be disappointed he moved away. After all, they would still have Michael—even though when Aziraphale mentioned his name, he looked strange for a second, as though it pained him to say it aloud. 

They decided to discuss the details after Aziraphale’s talk with Mary and Philip, and moved on to the gifts. 

Mum gave Aziraphale a book of her best recipes, saying that he needed to start practicing cooking for himself. Aziraphale was very touched by the gift, as he loved Mum’s cooking and had often helped her in the kitchen.

He, in turn, gave Aziraphale a pencil, an expensive one that had his friend’s name carved on it. He told Aziraphale that he needed to have a good pen when he signed copies of his first best-seller, and Aziraphale snorted but looked pleased nonetheless, holding the pencil in his fingers like it was something truly precious. 

But as Aziraphale thanked them both for the amazing and thoughtful gifts, he knew that the best thing they had given him had not been a book or pen but a home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to a research error (read: the writer was lazy), there’s something funny in the story’s universities... Let’s just say they now have a Northern European twist! To any Brits out there: I’m sorry. xD I might correct the timeline at some point, but now I can’t just be bothered. 
> 
> To avoid further embarrassment, I have made up a university. Apparently one can start their fantasy studies at my fantasy school already on the year they turn eighteen.
> 
> Emotionally, this is a very personal chapter. I might have cried a little, myself. Hope you can still enjoy it!

The following months proved out to be the happiest so far. 

Twelve days later, on a Sunday, Aziraphale finally left the foster home. Mum had called his parents once more before the move, just to make sure everyone was on the same page. After the call, she had seemed sad, and when he asked her about it, she had said she felt a little bad for taking away someone’s child.

Although he tried, he wasn’t personally able to feel much empathy for Mary and Philip—he was too happy about Aziraphale moving out to really care about anyone else. And Aziraphale _ was _ an adult, so he was the one who got to make the decision, for once. 

Mum had offered to pick Aziraphale up, and he had asked if he needed help packing his things—even taking a risk of running into Michael—but Aziraphale had declined both, saying that he didn’t have much. He hadn’t quite believed him, not before he saw Aziraphale appearing at their door, carrying a small suitcase and nothing else. 

”Is that _ really _ everything you own?” he had asked incredulously, wishing he could his words back when Aziraphale had gone red in the face, looking embarrassed. 

Despite Aziraphale’s weak protests, Mum had tidied up the guest room for him, saying there was no way he could sleep on the mattress every night. He knew Aziraphale was secretly pleased about finally having an own room—as was he. He liked sleeping next to Aziraphale, but he also needed his own privacy. He didn’t want to accidentally wake up Aziraphale while he was having a dream about him—just the thought made him cringe inwardly. 

Unpacking Aziraphale’s clothes and books didn’t take longer than a few minutes, and then Aziraphale just stood quietly in the middle of the guest room, smiling. He sat on the bed—Aziraphale’s bed—and couldn’t help grinning too. 

”You’re done already?” came Mum’s voice from the door. She stepped inside, looking around. ”A bit ascetic, isn’t it? We should go shopping, get new curtains, at least.”

”Mum,” Aziraphale said, his smile faltering. ”I really don’t need anything. I already owe you so much for all this. I mean, I could— I should pay for everything.”

”Aziraphale, my dear,” Mum said softly. ”You don’t owe me anything. We love having you here, isn’t that right, Anthony?” 

”Uh, yeah,” he said, beaming. ”This is like the best day of my life.”

Aziraphale eyes widened. ”Really?” he asked with a small voice. 

He nodded his head furiously, smiling like a fool. 

It wasn’t a lie, not even an overkill. For years he had hoped for this moment, for Aziraphale to come live with them, and now it was becoming a reality.

He woke up every morning excited to have breakfast with Aziraphale and Mum. He went to school happily, knowing that when he got out, Aziraphale might be already waiting for him at home. They did their homework together in his room—unless Aziraphale really needed to concentrate on something—and then they spent the rest of the day together. Only after they went to bed, were they separated, but it was fine—he knew Aziraphale would be the first thing he saw every morning, and the last thing he saw every evening. He couldn’t even begin to describe how happy it made him. 

Aziraphale seemed more content, too. He smiled more and his laughs came more easily, like sudden rays of sun that peeked through dark clouds. Having always been on the skinny side, he even gained some weight. He cooked with Mum almost every day, eager to learn every recipe from Mum’s casseroles to impossibly complicated desserts. He always enjoyed the results of his hard work, a blissful look on his face. 

Sometimes the difference between the Aziraphale, who lived with them, and the Aziraphale, who had lived in the foster home, was so noticeable that he kept wondering if he had known his best friend at all. After all, Aziraphale had always seemed quite satisfied, especially after he had left the orphanage. It made him worry that he might have missed something else, something important that had been waiting there, hidden in plain sight, screaming silently for help that it knew it would never receive. 

Yet, being selfish that he was, he mostly thanked himself for Aziraphale’s contentment. And Mum, he also thanked her for being a mother to another boy, who had fallen into their lives unexpectedly, the same way he had fallen at Aziraphale’s feet, nearly cracking his head open. 

Even he could see there was something very metaphorical in all of that.

—

He should have known nothing as good as the time Aziraphale spent living with them was meant to last forever. The happy months were followed by the not-so-happy months, or—as he now refers to them—the godawful months. 

It started one morning in the end of July. Summer holidays had started a week ago, and he woke up late, immediately noticing the sunlight didn’t annoy him like it usually did. The rays of light slithering from between the blinds felt almost nice, hitting his face like a warm tail of a cat who wanted attention. 

As he became more conscious, he sat up slowly and blinked. Everything looked different, flat, and it took him a second to realise it reminded him of the eye patch. He lifted a hand to his left eye, almost expecting to find something covering it, but there was nothing there. He flinched as he accidentally jabbed his finger painfully in the eyeball, not having seen it in front of him. 

Anxiously, he moved the hand to cover his right eye. The room around him disappeared completely, confirming his worst fears. 

His left eye had gone blind. 

He panicked, and rubbed at the eye, hoping that maybe he was wrong, maybe it would just take some time for it to start seeing again, but no matter how hard he rubbed, the eye remained black. 

”No,” he said aloud, his voice cracking slightly. He scrambled out of the bed, hitting his knee against the bedside table. He barely noticed how the lamp fell down on the floor with a clatter. ”Fuck no. No, no, _ no_.”

He kept pawing at his face, wanting to dig the eye _ out_, because it was useless, it was dead, and he didn’t _ want _it anymore, he didn’t—

”Anthony?” Aziraphale’s voice called somewhere behind him. ”What are you— Stop! You’re hurting yourself!” 

Then, suddenly, Aziraphale was beside him, pulling his hands away from his face. He tried to fight back, but Aziraphale was stronger, gripping his wrists almost painfully. 

”What’s wrong? Stop. Look at me, Anthony.”

But he couldn’t look at Aziraphale, not now, knowing that he would never see him through both of his eyes. It was done, finished. He could no longer keep pretending his eye might get better, that someday it would miraculously heal, and he wouldn’t be damaged anymore, and maybe then Aziraphale would love him back as fiercely as he loved him, and—

Aziraphale let go of his wrists and instead touched his jaw, gently turning his head so that he could face him. 

He couldn’t even see him properly, because apparently at some point he had started crying, and his best friend was just a blurry, human-shaped lump in front of him. 

”It’s gone, isn’t it?” the lump asked, and he could do nothing but nod his head, beaten, and sob even harder. 

He expected Aziraphale to leave him there, weeping pathetically, but then his arms were around him, enveloping him in a warm hug. The touch made him inhale sharply and close his eyes, and when he leaned against Aziraphale, he could almost make himself believe he was only having a bad dream, and soon he would wake up and everything would be back to the way it was before. 

”Don’t let go,” he whispered against Aziraphale’s neck, already soaked with his hot tears. 

”I won’t,” Aziraphale whispered back, and held him until he could no longer cry. 

—

Eventually, Aziraphale did let go. 

Maybe he should have been more specific, tell him that when he had said ’Don’t let go’, he really had meant ’Don’t _ ever _ let go, not today, not tomorrow, never’, but it was too late now. 

In a few days, Aziraphale was going to move away. He had gotten acceptance letters from every top university in the country, and had chosen one in Runesborough, which—at least—was remotely close to Tadfield. After all, he could have picked a school in Scotland where he had sent an application on a whim, too. 

He should have been happy, but he was not. 

The rest of the summer had been… not good. After he had woken up that cursed morning in July, he had gone into a steep descent, and nothing or no one—not Aziraphale, not Mum, and definitely not the counselor Mum forced him to see once a week—could get him back up. He was a lost cause. 

He refused to go out. He refused to eat. He refused to draw, to tease Aziraphale, or to do anything that could have made him feel better. He mostly stayed in his room, lying in bed, eyes closed but not sleeping, only pretending, so that Aziraphale and Mum would leave him alone. 

Aziraphale hadn’t gotten the hint, persistently coming to wake him up in the morning a tender smile on his face. Aziraphale had tried to make conversation, comfort him in every possible way, even read aloud some of his old stories that he had especially liked. It was all in vain, and after the hundredth time he had snapped at Aziraphale to let him be, he had seemed to give up. Aziraphale still tried to cheer him up, but as the days went by, the attempts became fewer and weaker, until Aziraphale looked like he was the one whose spirits needed improving. 

After realising what he had done, he cried—it seemed as though it was the only thing he could do right. That, and hating himself. 

He started torturing himself, as a punishment for hurting Aziraphale. He would go to the bathroom and stare at his face in the mirror, to look at his blind eye, the ugly one that had started to turn grey—like milk that had gone bad—until he could feel nothing but hatred. Things he had used to like about himself, his auburn hair, his honey-coloured eyes, his sharp cheekbones, had ceased to exist, as though they could only be seen through his left eye, and therefore were now lost forever. 

After he was done with self-hatred, he often caused himself pain by thinking about the accident. For years, he hadn’t gone back to the day that had changed everything, but now he let the memory of it pester him like an angry wasp. With the memories came also strange phantom pains in the back of his head, and sometimes he could feel something on his face, blood, tears, the eye patch, only to realise they were not real. 

The worst pain came when he thought about despising Aziraphale. He hated how God, or life, or whoever, had decided, that to get Aziraphale, he had to give his eye away. That those two things couldn’t exist in the same reality. He hated that he had ever fallen, which meant he had to hate Aziraphale too, because their friendship, his love, were both results of that. 

Finally, after hitting the rock bottom, he forced himself to get up, just for a little while, so that he could, the very least, give Aziraphale a proper goodbye. Because there was no way Aziraphale would want to come back to someone like him. He was rotten, both inside and out, and he didn’t want to cause more harm to anyone else. He would say goodbye, and then forget he ever loved Aziraphale. Maybe it would take him a year, maybe thirty years, but somehow he would get there, one way or another. 

He got up from the bed, feeling sore and croggy. He had no idea what time it was—he had broken his alarm clock in an angry fit a few weeks back. It must have been already late, though, because the room was dark. 

His eyes and head ached from crying, and he knew his hair and clothes were a mess, but he decided not to care. It wasn’t like he could make himself look any better. He walked to his door, and opened it, momentarily getting blinded by the bright light in the hallway. He stopped to listen for a second, and heard Aziraphale and Mum’s voices coming from Aziraphale’s room. 

A bit shakily, he walked to the end of the hallway, before hesitantly peeking inside the room. 

”Is there a bookcase in your room, do you know?” Mum asked Aziraphale, as she was putting a heavy-looking cardboard box on the floor next to the bed. Aziraphale was standing with his back turned to him, eyeing a notebook in his right hand. ”You could take the one we have in the garage.”

”Yes, I think there is,” Aziraphale said, and scribbled something in the notebook. He noticed he was using the pencil he had given him, and felt pain shoot through his chest. 

”What about a good chair? Anthony Senior never came to pick up his, but I’ve kept it. It’s quite fancy, black leather and all,” Mum rambled on. She picked up a roll of tape and started taping the cardboard box shut. 

”Well, a chair would be nice, but… Wouldn’t Anthony need it, when he moves away?”

”We can always get him a new one. Now—”

He coughed, purposely louder than was necessary. Aziraphale and Mum turned to him, both wearing the same, slightly shocked expression. 

”Anthony, love, how are you feeling?” Mum hurried to ask, putting away the tape roll. ”Do you want something to eat? We made scones in the morning, would you like one?”

”No,” he said. ”I’m not hungry. Why are you packing already?” Aziraphale was supposed to leave on Sunday and it was only Wednesday—at least he thought it was. ”It’s not like he has anything to pack.” 

Aziraphale froze, dropping his gaze to the floor. 

”Anthony,” Mum warned. ”I know it has been hard on you, but please, try to be—”

”You know _ nothing_,” he snapped, his voice breaking. 

”Anthony—”

”Shut up!”

”I’m going to have to ask you to go back to your room if you can’t—”

A harsh laugh escaped his mouth. 

”First, you keep making me come out, and now you’re telling me to go back? That️’s thick.” 

His eyes were starting to burn, and his hands trembled, and he _ hated _ it, he _ hated _ Mum for still trying, and he _ hated _ Aziraphale because he loved him, but mostly he hated _ himself_, so incredibly much, for ruining everything, even this goodbye. 

Aziraphale tossed the notebook on the bed, before walking to him. 

”Come here,” Aziraphale said softly, and before he could do anything, he was pulled into his arms.

Thinking it might be the last time he got to hold Aziraphale, he clinged to him like his life depended on it. And—in a way—it probably did. 

”Why are you crying?” Aziraphale asked, after he had calmed down a bit. 

What could he say? 

_ I’m crying because I’m damaged. I’m crying because you’re leaving. I’m crying because I love you. _

He sniffled. ”I came to say goodbye. Before you leave.”

Aziraphale took a step back, but didn’t let go of him. 

”What are you talking about? I’m not leaving yet,” he said, frowning. 

”But soon you will. And then— Then we won’t see each other anymore.” 

He knew he sounded pathetic, but he couldn’t help it. For months, he had kept this fear inside of him, letting it consume him every single day, and now he had to let it out. 

”Anthony, dear. I can visit you every other weekend. Right, Mum?” 

Aziraphale turned to Mum, who was watching them, a soft look in her eyes. 

”Well, yes, this is your home now, love,” she said. ”You can come back whenever you want.”

”Hear that?” Aziraphale asked. He gently grabbed his hand and held it, just the same way he had when they were children. ”I’m not leaving you. I’m just— Growing up, and you️’ll follow me in a few years.”

He looked up, not quite believing what Aziraphale was saying. ”How can you— I ruined everything. How could you forgive me?”

Instead of answering him right away, Aziraphale hugged him again, sighing against his neck. 

”You haven’t ruined anything, my dear. You’re my best friend,” Aziraphale whispered into his ear, gently smoothing a warm hand across his back.

And just like that, Aziraphale would take something, his sadness, his heart, and somehow make everything better. 

Only Angel—who was an orphan, who had read a thousand books, whose whole life could fit inside a small suitcase, who could always do and say the right thing, who never cried or treated anyone badly—could perform such a miracle. 

—

The awful, horrible months were followed by the pretty decent years. 

Aziraphale started his Literature studies and got a part-time job in a bookshop in Runesborough. He was busy, but he called and messaged him a lot, and came back to Tadfield as often as possible, especially in the beginning. 

He, in turn, continued to sixth form, staying in his secondary school. Because his left eye was now completely blind, he had finally been forced to tell the teachers about it. Without depth perception, he was clumsier, and he sometimes had trouble with coordination, but since P.E. lessons were no longer mandatory, it didn’t really bother him. His looks were another matter—he still hated how his eye looked, and kept wearing sunglasses, just to avoid being stared at. 

Mentally, he was not in the best place, but not in the worst either. After realising that Aziraphale hadn’t left him for good, he had gotten considerably better. The blind eye he had to deal with, daily, but in a way, seeing nothing _ was _better than the constant pain caused by his deteriorating eyesight. At least he now knew it couldn’t get any worse.

He managed to make a couple of new acquaintances at school. He wouldn’t go far enough to call them _ friends_—they were nothing compared to Aziraphale—but they still made him feel less lonely. After school days both Aziraphale and he were too busy with their studies to stay constantly in touch, so it was nice to have someone else to talk to, besides Mum, of course.

Aziraphale told him he had made some new friends, too. He tried not to get jealous, he really did, but he couldn’t help constantly dreading that Aziraphale would find himself a new best friend and forget about him. Fortunately, it hadn’t happened yet, which was good.

Besides, what he feared even more, was that Aziraphale would start seeing someone, in a romantic way. He hadn’t asked if Aziraphale liked anyone—not after he had learned about Michael—but it was quite apparent he was not interested in dating. 

And he wasn’t, either. Not that anyone fancied him, but even if someone did, he would ignore it. His heart belonged to Aziraphale, and to Aziraphale only. 

Once, they had driven to Runesborough with Mum to spend a day together—all three of them. Runesborough was slightly bigger than Tadfield, and because of the university, there were a lot more young people, making the town livelier. They had walked around the town, and visited Aziraphale’s favourite shops and cafés and restaurants.

Before heading back home, Mum drove to the campus so they could see Aziraphale’s place. It was a tiny, yet cosy, one-room apartment with a bathroom and a small kitchenette. Aziraphale got a discount at the bookshop he worked at, which meant he had piles of books everywhere, on the floor, on the window sill, even in the bathroom. 

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry about the mess!” Aziraphale had gasped, after Mum had almost tripped on a particularly thick book on her way out of the loo.

During the visit, he had been only able to smile stupidly, because he was so incredibly happy for Aziraphale. His best friend finally got to live as he wanted, surrounded by things he loved. 

Aziraphale looked better, too. Since he was now buying his own clothes, he preferred to wear outfits that were kind of… old-fashioned, and he often resembled a university professor, rather than a student, with his beige slacks and waistcoats. Sometimes he even wore a bow tie, which made him look entirely too adorable.

Months went by fast and soon it was summer again. During holidays Aziraphale worked full-time in the bookshop, which meant he couldn’t come to Tadfield as often as he had hoped. Instead, he would sometimes take a bus to Runesborough alone and spent a few days at Aziraphale’s, sleeping on thin a mattress in his room. 

When summer was nearing its end, Aziraphale started to pester him about universities. Unlike Aziraphale, he didn’t have any clue what he wanted to study after school. 

”What about art universities?” Aziraphale had suggested when they had talked on the phone one evening. 

”Angel, I don’t know if you have noticed, but I’m, in fact, half-blind,” he had answered darkly. 

”There are a lot of different jobs in the art industry!” Aziraphale had said, but he had told him to drop it.

To be honest, he already had a plan. If he didn’t figure out something soon, he would just move to Runesborough after school and get a job—that way he could be close to Aziraphale. Of course, he wanted to keep studying, but with his condition and his grades, the expectations were not very high.

But when the Christmas holidays—which Aziraphale luckily got to spent with him and Mum—came, he still hadn’t come up with anything. His drawing skills weren’t that extraordinary, he wasn’t interested in Architecture or Design, and he couldn’t study anything practical that required a good eyesight. He had been able to get a driver’s license, even with partial blindness, which meant he could potentially be a driver of some sort. Oh, joy. 

In January, he turned eighteen, but the day itself wasn't very special. As the actual birthday was a Monday, Aziraphale couldn't celebrate it with him. Mum had made him a cake, and he had actually gone to a pub in the evening, just because he could, but he was really only waiting for Aziraphale's visit on the upcoming weekend.

On Friday, he actually sat by the living room window, after Mum had left to pick Aziraphale from the bus station. When Mum’s car appeared in the driveway, he went to the front door, opening it for Aziraphale and Mum. Aziraphale smiled widely, as he saw him and hurried inside to give him a hug and to congratulate him warmly.

"I can't believe we're both adults," he said, after they had gone up to his room. Aziraphale still slept in his own room, but they spent most of the time in his, just like they used to. At the moment, he was lying on the bed while Aziraphale sat at his desk.

"Me neither," Aziraphale said, and sighed. "And yet, here we are. Oh, I almost forgot." He got up to get his backpack that he had tossed on the floor next to the bed. "I have a gift for you."

He sat up straighter, and watched curiously as Aziraphale rummaged through his backpack before digging out a small package.

"I'm not very good at this... gift thing," Aziraphale said, looking at the package in his hands, a small frown on his face. "I don't know how people do it. I hope— I hope this is not inconsiderate. I didn't know what else to give."

"Angel, I'm sure it's fine," he said, extending his hand. He feared Aziraphale might take the present back had he too much time to hesitate.

Aziraphale let him take the gift, and then started to nervously rub his hands together.

He hastily ripped off the wrapping, revealing a long, wooden case. He opened it, finding inside a pair of very expensive looking sunglasses. 

"Don't take them as an encouragement," Aziraphale said. "I don't think you should wear them at all, anymore. But, well, I happened to see them in the shop, and couldn't stop thinking how good they would look on you, so..." 

He looked up and witnessed Aziraphale blushing faintly. Aziraphale didn’t avert his gaze, though, looking back at him expectantly, hopefully. 

”It’s a great gift,” he assured Aziraphale. He didn’t _ really _care what Aziraphale gave him—just his friendship was all he needed. Not to say the sunglasses weren’t cool, Aziraphale must have spent a lot of money on them. 

He carefully took the glasses out of the box, and put them on. 

”How do I look?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow at Aziraphale. 

”Absolutely dashing,” Aziraphale replied without hesitation. 

—

On Sunday, he borrowed Mum’s car and gave Aziraphale a lift back to Runesborough, but instead of returning back home right away, he drove around the town looking for a sign, a tip, anything, that would help him to make a decision for his future. Or even point him to a right direction. 

Then, something caught his eye. A small flower shop, crammed between a hardware store and a bakery, was looking for an apprentice. 

_ Flowers? Really? _he thought. Then again, why not? Would plants care how many working eyes he had? Very unlikely. 

He parked the car, and stepped out, before walking to the shop. A bell on top of the door let out a happy _ ding _when he entered. 

”Hello?” he said to the seemingly empty shop. Every surface he could see, walls included, was covered in all things green: plants, flowers, vines. Even the floor was painted green, making the space look like a mossy forest instead of a shop. 

”Coming!” came a voice from the back, before a tall, blonde man appeared. He had a black apron, and eyes that almost matched it. ”How can I help you?”

The man eyed him a bit suspiciously, which made him realise he was still wearing his sunglasses. He quickly pocketed them. 

”Saw the ad outside. You’re looking for an apprentice?” he asked, trying to be as polite as he could. 

”That’s an old ad, forgot to take it off,” the man grunted. 

”Oh,” he said, failing to not sound disappointed. ”Well, sorry that I bothered. Good day, sir”

He turned to leave, when the man interrupted, ”I didn’t say it wasn’t still relevant. It’s just very old. Children these days… They don’t want to do honest work. No one applied.”

He turned back around and raised an eyebrow at the man’s comment. The man himself didn’t look much over thirty. 

”I’m not afraid of honest work,” he assured. 

The man grunted again, and he took it as a positive reply. 

”Say, if the ad is already old, you might still have it up in July?” he continued, feeling a bit cocky. 

”July? Probably. If I’m not dead by then.” The man sounded strangely hopeful. ”I get by without any help, but I have other businesses to look after. Come by, if you’re still interested.”

”I certainly will, mister...?”

”Hastur,” the man said, and he wasn’t completely sure whether it was his first or last name, or a sneeze. 

”I’m Crowley,” he said as he put his sunglasses back on. ”See you in July, Mr. Hastur.”

As he stepped out of the shop, he finally knew what he would do. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Unfortunately, life is keeping me busy, so I’ll be able to update every two weeks from now on. I hope y’all understand!
> 
> This chapter is the beginning for the second half of the story. It will be a bit different than the first half, mainly because our boys are now both over thirty. :)

_ Sometimes I asked myself: Did you need me like I needed you? Because you were always there, at my darkest hour, and I never realised that I was there at your darkest hour, too. _

—

”Oh, for God’s sake, _ move_!”

He slammed his palm on the car horn, the angry honk barely audible over Queen’s ’Don’t Stop Me Now’ that was blasting out at full volume from the CD player. The driver in front of him caught his gaze in his car's side mirror, mouthed something rude—judging by his expression—and then gave him the finger. 

”Oh no, you didn’t,” he muttered under his breath, and made a sharp turn to the right, passing the driver and three other cars, before getting stuck in the traffic again. He sighed and groped for his cell phone that he had dumped on the seat next to him. 

He texted Aziraphale one-handedly, informing him that he was running late, and wouldn’t make it to the lunch after all. 

_ That’s all right. See you in the evening_, came Aziraphale’s reply shortly, and he tossed the phone back on the seat. 

He had promised to pick up a box of copies of Aziraphale’s new novel from a printing house outside of London, and had left the task to the last minute—in his usual manner. To his defence, he hadn’t realised the lunch hour would create such a traffic jam, preventing him from making it in time to their weekly meeting that he _ really _hated to miss. Normally, the trip would have taken him less than twenty minutes, as he was quite a fast driver—Aziraphale always criticised his driving, saying he went too fast and had no patience or self-preservation—but he had already sat in the car for half an hour, barely moving, and was seriously getting frustrated. 

Luckily, his work hours were _ very _ flexible, which meant he didn’t have to worry about missing something important—besides, of course, the lunch date with Aziraphale, which was anyway the most important thing on his schedule. 

He was still working for Hastur, as he had for the past thirteen years, and whenever he had to explain the nature of his work to an outsider, he usually didn’t, because sometimes even he wasn’t quite sure what it was that he actually did. 

The start of his colourful career had, in fact, started at Hastur’s flower shop, right after he had finished school. 

At the shop, he had learned many things: the names of the plants they sold, how to make flower arrangements—he even took a course on ikebana—and how to treat any plant or flower to make it look fresh for days, or even years. As surprising as it was, plants had been the best part of his work—no matter how boring he had found them in the beginning. Truth to be told, that passiveness proved to be an essential part of their charm.

Plants were simple. They were easy to read. They didn’t stare at him, or ask him why he was always wearing sunglasses. They didn’t even get offended, when he sometimes blew out some steam by yelling curses at them, pretending they were the client who had berated him for not being able to magically turn all white roses to the exact shade of ivory that would match some stuck-up bride’s wedding dress.

Hastur, in turn, had been a terrible mentor—he still didn’t know why Hastur had even owned a flower shop; his lack of interest toward anything living was blatant—but a decent boss. Fair, even. He had told him the salary would suck—and it certainly had—but as if to make it up to him, he let him live in a vacant room above the shop, for free. The room was hardly livable, merely a gloomy hole in the wall, but it was _ his _ gloomy hole in the wall, and that made all the difference. He never invited Mum to his place, always coming up with excuses why she couldn’t visit, because he was afraid she would drag him back home the minute she saw where his son was living.

And nevertheless, Aziraphale’s reaction had covered Mum’s. 

”Oh, dear, it’s...” Azirahaphale had said when he had visited him for the first time, looking utterly horrified, ”... very unique”, which, in Aziraphale’s language, meant he absolutely hated the place but was too nice to say it aloud. 

”I’ll get a plant,” he had said, for some reason, as though a plant—or twenty plants, for that matter—would have miraculously covered the moldy spots in the ceiling, or the missing floor plank that he only learned to step over after the fifth time his foot had sunk in. 

Later, he wondered how an earth he had been able to _ sleep _ in that room. The answer was obvious: he didn’t care where he slept, as long as he got to see Aziraphale. And they had seen each other, almost every day. The two years they had spent apart were swept away immediately after he moved to Runesborough, and from that day on, nothing seemed so terrible anymore. 

After a few years Hastur sold the shop, but instead of firing him, he offered him a job as his assistant. Now, he had a vague idea about what Hastur did, and it had already been a bit shady—if not entirely illegal—but Hastur never shared any information that might have gotten him into trouble, and that was why he took the offer, gladly. Hastur only told him he was a businessman, and so his days mostly consisted of running errands, such as picking up stuff and delivering it, or picking up Hastur himself and delivering him to someplace, usually in a hurry. His salary got a noticeable increase, and he moved to a new apartment that was still shitty but slightly less so. 

Back then, Aziraphale had been still studying, and preferred to live on the campus, even though he had suggested moving in together. He tried not to take it personally—after all, Aziraphale had never been able to live by himself before, and it must had felt nice after all those years in dorms and shared rooms.

Another few years passed, and as he got older, he lost the last remains of his boyhood. By twenty-five he had the kind of ’striking presence’ (Aziraphale’s words, not his) that made people want to listen to what he had to say. Hastur noticed it too, and upgraded his job description, again. Hastur had recently bought an art gallery in London—which was a bit odd, because he knew even less about art than he did about plants—and wanted him to manage it. 

He didn't think twice before saying yes, even though it meant he would have to move to London. He wasn't worried about that, because Aziraphale had finally graduated, and was also looking for workrooms in London, so that he could finish a novel he had started writing. 

He still remembers how proud Aziraphale had been when he told him what he was going to do. He actually did end up working in the art industry, and had a knack for it, too. Maybe he only had one working eye, but that eye was excellent at seeing whose art would sell and whose would not—although he never picked artists based entirely on their possible value in money. Hastur often disagreed on his methods, but Hastur also said contemporary art was just adults pretending they were still in kindergarten, playing with finger paints, so he mostly ignored his opinions. 

Besides managing the gallery—which Hastur had named _Eden_—he had kept doing odd jobs for Hastur, and to this day, he still did. He was a manager, but he was also an art collector, a driver (he drove a black vintage Bentley), a bodyguard (sort of, even though it mainly meant standing next to Hastur and looking menacing), a florist (occasionally) and many other things he didn’t have a title for. 

He owned a nice place in London, traveled whenever he could, and had weekly lunches at the Ritz with his best friend. 

All in all, he was doing quite okay. 

He finally reached the exit he was supposed to take, and stepped on the gas, the tires screeching as he sped down the lane. He glanced at the navigator mounted to the dashboard above the CD player to find the right street, and a few minutes later parked the car in front of the printing house. 

He walked to the entrance of the building, and knocked on the door sharply. After a few moments, a short old man opened the door, peering up at him behind his glasses. 

”Hello. I came to pick up some books,” he said, going straight to the point. ”The author is Aziraphale—”

”Yes, yes,” the old man said, taking a step back. ”They’re right there on the table. Fresh from the print. Unfortunately, I can’t help you to carry them. Bad shoulders.”

”Of course, sir. I’m sure I can handle it.”

He stepped inside and went to pick up the box the man was pointing at. It was quite heavy, but he didn’t struggle as he carried it out. He managed to open the car door using one hand, and dropped the box on the front seat with a grunt. He waved his thanks to the man who stood in the doorway, looking after him, before walking around the car and sitting in front of the steering wheel. 

Instead of starting the car right away, he turned to the box and opened it by cutting the tape with the car key. He grabbed one of the books, before leaning back in his seat to examine it. 

In his usual style, Aziraphale had requested a simple cover. It was dark blue, matte instead of glossy, and the name of the novel, ’Present Tense’, was embossed on it, without any colour, in a Roman typeface. 

He opened the book, quickly browsing through the first pages, and there it was, like always, before the first chapter: 

_ To Anthony _

_ My dearest, oldest friend _

His heart swelled as he gently touched his own name with the tips of his fingers, careful not to leave a stain on the page. 

Aziraphale had dedicated all his novels to him, with no exceptions. He had a section for thanks in the end of each book, and he always mentioned him in them, too, but his name was the only one that had made it to the first pages. 

He wasn’t sure why. A lot of people had believed in Aziraphale. Mum, his professors, his classmates, they had all believed that he would become a writer, but for some reason, he mainly liked think it was because of him, a half-blind man who had _somehow_ remained his friend, even after he became famous. It didn’t even matter what the novel was about—it was dedicated to him every single time. 

The first time he had asked about it, but then it had also made sense, so he couldn’t even remember what explanation Aziraphale had given him. But now, four novels later, his name was still there, a regular reminder of their friendship, printed on thousands of books. 

’Present Tense’ would hit the bookstores in two weeks, and there was no doubt it wouldn’t become a bestseller. Despite his young age, Aziraphale was practically a millionaire, as he was one of the best-selling authors in the UK. 

_ Got them. I’ll drop them by the shop? _he messaged Aziraphale after he had put the book back in the box. 

_ Yes, please. Thank you_, came Aziraphale’s reply.

He started the car, and headed back to London. 

Aziraphale had bought an antiquarian bookshop two years ago in Central London. Calling it a shop was a bit far-fetched—seeing how his goal was less about selling anything and more about hoarding moldy copies of ancient books—but every time a new novel of his came out, he had a habit of putting it on display in the window, momentarily luring in more people than the shop could actually take. 

Aziraphale himself lived above the shop, in a relatively small and messy apartment, even though he could have lived basically anywhere, even in a mansion. He had told Aziraphale—many times—how unsafe it was to keep living there as someone as known as he was, but every time Aziraphale dismissed his warnings, saying he would gladly take the risk of possibly getting assassinated, as long as he got to die on a pile of fiction. 

The traffic wasn’t as bad as he drove back, and a few Queen songs later he was already pulling over at Aziraphale’s shop. After picking up the box, he hobbled up the few stairs and opened the door with his elbow. Once inside, he walked to the nearest table that wasn’t covered in books, and dropped the box onto it with a thud. 

The shop seemed empty, and he was just about to turn back and leave, when he heard someone speak, ”Oh, is that _ the _’Present Tense’?”

He turned abruptly and noticed a young woman standing next to one of the bookshelves, holding a thick, yellowed book in her hands. She was tall, and very beautiful, with long brown hair and dark eyes, which were currently staring at the box. Her outfit was a bit strange—she almost looked like a schoolmarm with her emerald green velvet dress and a pair of round glasses—but somehow also very fitting to her, almost making her blend in Aziraphale’s shop. 

”Depends on who’s asking,” he said, a bit rude. He didn’t need a fan of Aziraphale’s snooping around the shop, asking for details of a yet unpublished novel. 

”I’m Aziraphale’s research assistant. Anathema Device, pleasure to meet you.” The woman—American—stepped over a small book pile, and extended her arm toward him. 

”Since when does he have an assistant?” He eyed Anathema’s hand that was hanging in the air, expecting him to take it. 

”_Research _assistant. And, well, since he called me and said he wanted to write his next book about Occultists,” Anathema replied, still looking intently at him. 

”Occultists,” he repeated. At least that part sounded believable. The woman did look like someone who would be into witchcraft, or whatever. And he knew what Aziraphale’s next novel was going to be about, so it also checked out. 

He took Anathema’s hand hesitantly and shook it quickly, before letting go. 

”You must be Anthony,” she said, smiling. 

”Crowley,” he corrected. Only Aziraphale and Mum called him by his first name.

”Right.” 

”Aziraphale is writing?” He usually was at this time of the day. If he wasn’t writing, he was downstairs, reading, or just admiring his book collection. ”And you’re… researching?”

”Oh, yes. But he told me to say thank you for bringing the books. And to take your own copy. Unless, of course, you want it signed first.” Anathema had a teasing glint in her gaze, as though she knew something he didn’t. He didn’t like it. 

”I have enough of his works signed with that illegible scribbling,” he said, knowing he sounded more fond than indifferent. ”And I still have one of the print proofs at home, so…” He also knew he was bragging, but only a little. 

”Of course.” Anathema smiled again. ”Well, it was nice meeting you. I’m afraid I have to go back _ researching_, but I’m sure we’ll meet soon again.”

With that Anathema walked past him, hauled up the box of ’Present Tense’—strangely effortlessly—and carried it to the backroom where the rarely used cash register was kept.

He turned on his heels and exited the shop. 

—

On his way to Eden, he typed a message to Aziraphale, _You hired an assistant?_

He didn’t usually bother Aziraphale, especially if he knew he was working, but it nagged him that Aziraphale hadn’t mentioned anything, and he couldn't wait until the evening—when they were supposed to have dinner together to celebrate his novel—to ask him. 

Had Aziraphale said something about an assistant? He did sometimes have help with research, but never before had he hired someone to do it. Had he finally realised he didn’t have to do all the work by himself?

His phone beeped, but he didn’t pick it up, not expecting Aziraphale to reply so soon. He waited until he was in front of the gallery, parked the car in the reserved spot, and then read the message. 

_ Yes. Anathema started today. I assume you met her. What a bright young woman, don’t you think? _Aziraphale had written. He chuckled at the message. He was, in no way, good at estimating women's ages, but Anathema couldn't have been much younger than them—she seemed something between twenty and twenty-five—but Aziraphale made it sound as though he was considerably older.

_ Seemed a bit cheeky_, he typed back. _ Let’s talk more when we meet. I’ll pick you up at six? _

He slipped the phone inside the front pocket of his trousers, as he walked up to the door and stepped inside Eden.

It was bright inside, the warm September sun giving the pure white walls a light orange tint, and he couldn't help smiling. When Hastur had bought the space, it hadn't been nearly as inviting. The old owner had inherited the gallery from her grandparents who had preferred classical oil paintings, and the interior had been a reflection of that conservative trend. With Hastur's blessing, he had made _some _renovations, turning Eden into something more modern and minimalistic, so that every art piece would stand out beautifully. 

At the moment, they had works from three different painters. Eden had two exhibition rooms: a big, open space in the front—which was more popular due to the natural light coming from the large windows—and a smaller one behind it, the two spaces divided by a wall. There was a reception in front of the entrance, and an office in the back, used by him. Besides him, Eden currently had only one other employee, a young woman called Anna who worked as a receptionist. 

“Hello, Mr. Crowley,” Anna greeted him, looking up from her laptop. 

"Hello, Anna," he greeted back. "Any calls?" 

Eden opened at noon every day—except on Sundays and Mondays when they were closed—but it was usually quite slow during daytime, unless a group of tourists or an art class showed up. Anna didn't work full-time, which meant he also had to work at the reception occasionally, but normally he stayed in his office and only crawled out when he really had to. Today, he wasn't so eagerly looking forward to doing the paperwork—it was such a beautiful day, after all.

"Ah, yes." Anna handed him a neon-green post-it with a number on it. "Mrs. Miller again. That's her personal number, I'm not sure why she gave it. I told her you would call back as soon as possible."

"Christ," he sighed, taking the note. "She sure takes catering seriously. Well, I'll be in my office, then."

He walked through the exhibitions before coming to an unnoticeable white door with a 'Staff only' sign. He unlocked the door and went inside the office.

He was closing the door behind him, not bothering to lock it, when his phone gave another beep. He took it out of the pocket to read Aziraphale's message.

_ Yes. Can’t wait. Love you_, it said.

The phone slipped from his grip and he did a set of weird hand acrobatics to prevent it from landing on the concrete floor. 

He then removed his sunglasses and rubbed at his eye, before looking at the screen again, but there it still was. 

_ Love you. _

That was new. 

Well, not really. Of course he knew Aziraphale loved him. They had known for close to two decades, and knew each other better than anyone else. He had a lot of doubts about himself, but Aziraphale’s love for him was not one of them. 

But had Aziraphale ever said he loved him, in that particular way? Usually it was something along the lines of ’You’re dear to me’ or ’My dearest Anthony’. ’Love you’? No, never. It didn’t even sound like something that could come out of Aziraphale’s mouth. 

He sat down at his desk and rubbed at his temples, sighing. 

Every time, every damned time, he thought he had somehow gotten over Aziraphale, his best friend did or said something, something small and insignificant—like bringing him macarons he had baked in the middle of the day—or something ridiculously monumental—like dedicating four novels to him—and he was falling hard again. And again, and again. 

Every day, he loved Aziraphale more. Sometimes, if he mistakenly thought there wasn't enough _space_ inside him, his love still managed to expand, adding a layer on another layer, until it wasn’t even three-dimensional anymore, didn’t even exist in the same reality with his body and mind. 

What made it even more painful was that he knew, he _ knew_, he could never love anyone as much as he loved Aziraphale. Anthony Crowley, in love with Aziraphale—since forever. It was his whole definition. Nothing to add. 

And it wasn’t because there had been a lack of trying. He _had_ tried to love someone else. 

The first time he had tried had been at twenty-four. It was years after he had accepted that Aziraphale was one of those people who didn’t form romantic relationships. He had never dated anyone. He had never talked about anyone in a way that would suggest he wanted to be with them—romantically or platonically. Even his sexual orientation remained unknown. Yes, he had ’fooled around’ with a boy, but nothing, absolutely nothing, in him gave out that he would ever want to repeat that action. If anything, his reluctance to talk about Michael confirmed that theory. 

Until that point he had still occasionally played with the idea of telling Aziraphale how he felt, but after the realisation that his friend could never be with him—or anyone else—he had experienced a minor breakdown, which resulted a drunk night out and him having sex with a stranger in a toilet of a pub. 

It wasn’t even _ that _ bad—mainly because he kept thinking about Aziraphale the whole time. When the strange man kissed him, it was Aziraphale’s lips on his. When he gripped his hips and pushed him against the toilet door, it was Aziraphale who wanted him, so badly it hurt a little. And when he took him—too roughly—it felt _ good_, because it was Aziraphale inside him, not some strange man whose face he can’t even remember anymore. 

Afterwards he felt sick. And yet, he did it again, every time imagining it was Aziraphale, and every time feeling bad when it was finished, because, in a way, he was forcing Fantasy Aziraphale to have sex with him, time after time after time. 

He had stopped two years back when Aziraphale had asked him if he had a boyfriend. He had spent the night at a regular lay’s place, and had come late to their weekly lunch, practically reeking of sex and regrets. 

He would never forget the look on Aziraphale’s face, that innocent yet confused expression, as though he had never known that his best friend liked sleeping with men. Later, he realised that of course Aziraphale hadn’t known, because he had never _ told _ him, and _ that _ had made him stop. It wasn't the shame, or the unhealthiness of those relationships—even though they had left him sore more often than satisfied. It was the secrecy of it all, a rotten spot in their friendship that didn’t bear touching. 

That day, he decided he would never keep secrets from Aziraphale.

Except for _ that _ one. 

He sighed again, thinking whether he should reply Aziraphale. Acknowledge his weird little love declaration. Ask what he meant. 

_ Love you. _

He took out the post-it Anna had given him, and dialed Mrs. Miller's number, instead.


End file.
